


Sincerely, The Stranger You Call Sister

by Muse_Dono



Series: The Misadventures of Rebirth [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Background Character Death, Background Second World War, Challenge Response, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fix-It of Sorts, Heliophobic!OFC, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Rebirth, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, Tom Riddle's twin sister, Veela!Abraxas, Young Tom Riddle, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 106,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muse_Dono/pseuds/Muse_Dono
Summary: "First of all," she snarls, "I'd like to say 'fuck you' to both the Sun and God. They can kiss my arse!" Then, after a moment, she adds wryly; "Secondly, does anyone have any advise for when you're reborn as the villain's twin sister?" Grey!OC.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Misadventures of Rebirth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655290
Comments: 48
Kudos: 200





	1. You're A Riddle, Dorothy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritersObsession2002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritersObsession2002/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Story Challenge: Brother Dearest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389558) by [WritersObsession2002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritersObsession2002/pseuds/WritersObsession2002). 



> This is a challenge from Writer's Obsession2002, Story Challenge: Brother Dearest. See their profile if you want more information on it!
> 
> I also have this story posted on Fanfiction.Net, Wattpad, and Qoutev all with the username of Muse-Dono!

_Dear Little Brother,_

_Dying_ hurts.

_I don't recommend doing it._

_(Although I guess that's kinda obvious, eh?)_

_How do I know this, you ask? Well, it's simple -I died. And it wasn't a quick death, like my neck snapping or head being crushed, or painless like passing on in my sleep. No, my death had been prolonged for_ months _. I signed my own death_ _warrant and it was for a stupid reason to boot._

_I died because I was too stupid and stubborn to apply fucking_ sunscreen, _of all things. See, I used to live in California and back then I was obsessed with getting tan and tanner. For years I would spend hours basking in the sun with little to no clothing (to avoid tan lines of course) and I can still remember my Mum saying:_

_"Olivia, if you don't put on sunscreen now you'll regret it later."_

_Well, I certainly fucking regretted it later._

_I knew of cancer -how could I not? Adds, donations, and stories for it were around every corner. Still, the horrible disease seemed so...Far away, something that always happened to strangers but never touched me or my family personally, that I never thought I would get skin cancer because I spent too much time outside without proper protection._

_I was a real fucking idiot._

_Though I'll save the angst and heartbreak of my trail and lost fight against cancer for another time. The other thing I wanted to say is this:_

_Fuck God. Fuck the sun, fuck the fates, fuck both life_ and _death, and fuck you too, little brother._

_Can you even try to_ comprehend _the pure and utter_ panic _that consumed me when I realized that I was in the body of a fucking_ infant? _No, no you can't because you're a lucky son of a bitch that won't ever remember the bone deep mortification of shiting yourself and having someone clean it for you_ every single fucking day! _You won't remember how_ awkward _and uncomfortable it is to have a giant tit shoved in your mouth...And then_ liking it _because it stops the raging hunger pains. I'm scarred, I tell you, scarred for life!_

_And that's not even starting on the bitch that is the teething phase...Or the overwhelming frustration of being so_ weak _that you can't even lift your own_ goddamn head _, and how small and frightening the world is when you can't crawl, walk, talk, and being forced to be completely depended on giants._

_So yeah. Fuck God, fuck the sun, fuck the fates, fuck both life and death, and fuck you too, little brother._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**May 2nd, 1934.**

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, you put that rabbit down this instant!" I demand, hand on hip and pointing down at him with my other.

He scowls, rosy and chubby cheeks puffing up in indignation. Still, he slowly puts the poor animal down and I watch it scurry away. "He hurt you," Tom growls while pointedly looking at my right black eye, referring to yesterday when Billy and I got into a wrestling match.

"And if you remember, I had stomped on his balls quite painfully, too," I narrow my eyes. "The rabbit had nothing to do with it." The little spat all started when Billy called me "freak" and demanded that I move, and when I didn't he pushed me into the nearby mud puddle. I retaliated by snatching his wrist and forcing him to join me, and from there it had escalated until Martha came and forcibly separated us.

Tom crosses his arms. "He lied and got you sent into our room without supper, and locked in for a week. The rabbit might not have anything to do with it directly, however it _will_ serve as a good enough warning."

"And yet, here I am," I retort dryly, outside and in the forest behind Wool's Orphanage. This being possible by Tom long ago stealing us some thick rope, tying it securely to the bed frame, and climbing down the side of the stone wall. It's not the first time one of us had been "grounded" and sneaked off anyways. I doubt it'll be the last.

Tom doesn't look like he's going to move an inch, no matter what I say.

Finally, I sigh and say; "Fine. Scare the shite out of him, if you want, but just leave the innocents out of it. That includes other children, pets and animals," I warn firmly. "And if you _don't,_ know that you'll regret it."

He grins nastily, but concedes nonetheless. I'm sure he won't ever forget what happened last time he went against me -I made sure of it. I love my brother to bits, but I know that if I don't firmly stand up for myself he'll forever walk on top of me.

"Of course, Dorothy."

The next morning Billy Stubbs wakes everyone up shrieking bloody murder, with snakes hissing in his bed. Tom strutes around, utterly pleased with himself, for the rest of the day. I can only roll my eyes.

_'Prat,'_ I think fondly. I say it to his face, too, which earns me another adorable scowl.

* * *

**August 15th, 1934.**

"Mrs Coles is coming, so you might want to change," Tom announces right after closing our bedroom door.

"I thought the inspection was tomorrow?" I look up from my book in confusion.

He simply shrugs. "Apparently not -I just saw her criticizing Mary and Amy's lack of cleanliness."

I sigh and put my book down, hopping off our cheap bed to take off my (technically Tom's) trousers. Being in the thirties, Society is unfortunately very against girls and women wearing trousers instead of skirts and dresses (among many, many other things) and so the only time I get to be "free" is in the safety and privacy of our room. I once tried wear the bints and tossers that reside here in the orphanage down by always wearing boy's clothes, but Mrs. Coles's rod is too wicked and my poor bum complained too much. Tom thinks I'm dotty compared to other girls, too, I know, however he stopped questioning my weird behaviour and personality when I dared _him_ to go struting around in a dress all day.

Prideful and 1920's boy that he is, he blushed and retorted that men _do not_ wear _dresses._ Those are for _girls._

Eh? _Men?_ I don't see no man here -only a little boy that isn't even in the double digits yet!

He sulked and grumbled; "Just wait until we're older -we'll see who's laughing then. Maybe I'll marry you off to some disgusting pig! You'll match _perfectly,_ I'm sure."

That earned the little snot a wet-willy and some noogies until he pleaded for forgiveness. Any man that I may marry in the future is going to have to be several decades ahead of Society, or else I might just suffocate him in his sleep! Demote me to a pretty and dim servant/breeder to my husband, indeed.

I just mange to slip on my boring brown dress when Mrs Coles bristly knocks on our door before entering. Her lips thin and she narrows her judgmental eyes on me, but can't bring out that awful rod of her's since she didn't actually _see_ me wearing the trousers. I'm sure she's mighty disappointed, too.

"Dirty clothes on the floor? Filthy dust on the window and dresser? Floor not swept? Why am I not surprised, Dorothy," Mrs Coles says scathingly.

_'Expecting me to do all the cleaning, as the girl, again? Why am I not surprised, you miserable old bat.'_

Tom's lips twitch, guessing with good accuracy what I'm thinking.

After a few more dressing downs from Mrs Coles truly, saying that I'll never be adopted with my horrid behaviour and that I'll die a miserable old spinster -and if I _do_ somehow manage to snag a husband, she prays for the poor soul- before huffing and leaving us, though not before threatening no supper if our room isn't sparkling soon.

I pray for my possible and futuristic, sorry sod of a husband as well.

You know, I actually used to like Mrs Coles. The other caretakers, too. They were good at their jobs when Tom and I were babies and toddlers, though things quickly went down hill once we turned six. That's when our magic made itself known, and well, people in this time I find are very superstitious. People naturally fear the unknown, and fear can easily turn into disgust and hatred.

God, I can't wait until Dumbledore burns down our closet and ships us off to Hogwarts. _'Only three more years, now.'_

"Well, come on, Tommy. I for one don't want to go hungry tonight," I say resigned and pick up the trousers.

"We can always sneak down at night," he comments, yet still goes to make the bed.

I don't bother replying and we clean in peace.

* * *

**October 10th, 1934.**

_'Come on, where is it?'_

"What are you looking for, Dorothy?" Tom questions from the doorway.

I stick my head out from in the kitchen cabinet and huff; "My sewing set. I can't find the blasted thing and class is about to begin soon." It'll be the third time this week, too, the last time I found it outside in a tree. This had the rotten Amy and her crew all over it, I know full well, but I ain't fallen so low as to throw the _first_ punch when fighting a child. Bully or not. (Plus it'd be just like her to go crying to the adults afterwards, earning my pale bum or hands a bruising and another week locked up.)

Martha, one of the caretakers and the primarily the one to teach us girls how to sew and knit, won't believe a word against the precious Amy and her crew of spineless prats. Martha is one of the most religious adults here in Wool's Orphanage, and she's been completely convinced that Tom and I are the spawns of Satan ever since Tom first summoned a toy that he couldn't reach. It didn't help matters when she caught me hissing at a snake in the garden when I was six. I'm sure she'll delight in the excuse to punish me.

I'm stewing in the bitterness of my thoughts, and don't notice when Tom leaves without a word, too consumed in my task in finding my stupid sewing set before four o' clock. Two minutes before, Tom finds me again, this time outside searching the bushes.

"Here, I found it under the stairs." He hands me my sewing set with a smug expression.

I beam and hug him. "Thanks, Tommy!" I cheer sincerely. "You're my hero!"

Pleased, Tom accepts my praise and I let go.

"I gotta go -see you after," I tell him before hurrying back inside.

Sewing lessons are usually done in the common room, and everyone else is already there and settled by the time I enter. Well, everyone but Amy that is. I frown, my earlier happiness and gratitude towards Tom being replaced with a tightening of my gut.

_'I should have known...'_

"So nice of you to join us," Martha, a thirty year old women with a tight black bun and square glasses, drawls. "And I see you've finally came prepared."

"Yes, ma'am," is the only acceptable response.

"Sit down, girl, so that we can-"

"But Amy isn't here yet!" eight year old Mary protests.

Martha frowns, glancing at the crowd of children in front of her. "Does anyone know where she is?" She asks, but cuts me a hard look as if she blames me for this.

_'No, but I do have a few ideas.'_ I don't say anything, though, as Mary is sent to go fetch Amy while Martha begins the lesson for the rest of us. I sit down, behind and out of everyone's way, and work in silence. Mary comes back ten minutes, empty handed. I press my lips tighter and ignore Martha's accessory glare and the other girls' whispers.

_"Where do you think she went?"_

_"I saw her in the toy room last."_

_"I bet the freaks had something to do with it."_

_"Shh! She's right there -do you want her brother coming after you too?"_

_"Poor Amy..."_

Poor Amy, my arse. Though I won't deny that I'm not a tad worried, myself. Not for her but for Tom. Despite all my effort in the earlier years I've only ever been able to _curb_ Tom's tendencies to be cruel and torment the other residents here in Wool's Orphanage. And, to be perfectly honest, often I can't fault him too terribly.

We may have a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs and food on the table even if it's not always hot, but this orphanage is hell nonetheless. The only one to call us by our names is Mrs. Coles and the Liberian at the local library. According to almost everyone else we're either "Freaky Girl," "Freaky Boy," simply "Freak" or even the "Demonic Twins." When the adults turned on us it prompted the children to follow, and while I couldn't give a flying shite what a group of prats think of me, I don't deny that it doesn't make me mad at the unfair treatment. If _anything_ does wrong people are so quick to blame us, even if we didn't have anything to do with it, and even if we try to tell the truth we're assumed to be filthy liars when pitted against another's word. If people aren't doing their utmost to make sure that they don't touch us -lest they get _diseases_ or cursed- then we're being pushed, punched, and knocked down.

And so it's very difficult to defend someone when you want to hurt them back just as much.

(I understand why Tom always feels so repulsed when having skin-to-skin contact with other people. People other than myself, that is, which I'm very grateful for. I've always made sure to shower him in affection, be it a kiss on the forehead, plenty of hugs, or a reassuring squeeze of his hand, and he's never pulled away from me. Admittedly I find myself taking extra care to avoid bumping into strangers on the streets, and feeling my skin crawl when I fail. I wasn't always like this.)

It's so very _easy_ too see how the vile Voldemort persona is nurtured in my dear brother. Being treated like a normal child until six, and then suddenly having everyone do a complete 180? To be treated and viewed as utter shite for most of your life? It's no brainer how bitterness and resentment can fester until it's all-too consuming.

Although I like to think that I've affected Tom for the better. Even if it's only towards myself only. He's usually very reluctant to ask for any help, instead demanding and even blackmailing in order to get it, but it warms my heart whenever he turns to me for assistance nicely, even if it's something small like opening a jar. And while he's very independent for his age, he doesn't try to overrule me or make my decisions for me.

I know that Tom isn't a normal, emotionally balanced individual. I see it in his eyes -the lack of sympathy and remorse- when it comes to others, and I'm reminded of this fact when he asks me _why_ people are the way they are, or _why_ something so obvious is _wrong_ to do (like butchering a rabbit.) He thinks and views the world differently than everyone else -he's too cold and calculating for a boy his age, although that too can be partly blamed on our environment. I know that my twin brother is either a sociopath or psychopath, though I don't know which one because there _is_ a diffidence between the two, even if it's small.

Still. I can still remember with fondness back when we shared a crib, and he would roll over to steal my body heat during the chilly nights, his chubby little fist clutching my nightclothes tightly and his head on my shoulder or tummy. (We attracted quite a few coos and declarations of adorableness back then.) His first word was my name, too, or at least the managed "Doo." (It was the _cutest_ "Doo" ever and I'll fight anyone who dares to say otherwise.)

Where was I going with this? Oh, right! While Amy's disappearance is a bit worrying, I have faith that it isn't _too_ bad...

_-"Here, I found it under the stairs." He hands me my sewing set with a smug expression.-_

_'He probably just locked her in the cupboard underneath the stairs. And gagged her so that she isn't found too soon by making a racket.'_ If no one's found her by suppertime then I'll free her myself -after all, she did steal my stuff not once, not twice, but three times in hopes that I'll get punished. A timeout will serve her some good. Reflect on her behaviour and all that shite.

After sewing lessons I scurry away and make my way to Tom and I's bedroom. I remember when Mrs Coles tried to separate us with same-gender roommates when we were four, but Tom threw thee _biggest_ tantrum I've ever seen in _both_ of my lives. You'd think that they were dragging me to the hanging block or something! Eventually after a week of nonstop, wretched screaming, stomping, throwing, and trying to break into each other rooms (because it both tore at my heart and caused it to swell in happiness to see him so miserable with sleeping apart) Mrs Coles finally conceded and allowed us to share a room together instead. Then as we got older, about seven, Mrs Coles tried again for "prosperity" sake. Tom didn't scream and cry this time, but it didn't take his numerous roommates long to become terrified and beg Mrs Coles to switch them out.

And so we share a room, and a bed. The second bed that used to be in there got taken out the same time Mrs Coles conceded defeat for the second time. She says it's because the new addition to the orphanage (at the time) needed it more, but I think she was just trying to be petty. Doesn't bother us, anyways -we're both tiny as fuck so there's plenty of room. Although that will change once we hit puberty and Tom starts growing like a fucking weed...

"Finished already?" Tom comments when I enter, sitting on our bed with a book.

I hum. "Amy didn't show up," I muse, taking off my dress for a shirt and trousers.

"Really? That's odd." Tom still doesn't at me, though I can tell how tightly he's holding the book and his slightly hunched over position.

_'He's feeling defensive.'_ "Don't play dumb with me, Tommy," I stare at him flatly, changed, and plop myself on the bed. "You locked her underneath the stairs, didn't you?"

He puts his book down, scowling. "I'm not going to apologize. She deserved it."

"I agree," I reply while crawling next to him, leaning against the wall. "But I'm still going to let her go if she's still down there by suppertime."

Tom huffs, but doesn't stop me when I put my head on his bony shoulder.

"I love you, Tommy."

"...I love you too, Dorothy. But _must_ you let her go? At least wait until the next morning. You know she's just going to do something different after a few weeks _."_

_"_ She's a prat, but she's nine," I remind him -and myself as well.

"And _we're_ eight," Tom counters.

"She has a mentality of a four year old. We do not."

He tries to stifle his snort of laughter, but fails miserably.

I grin my shite-eating grin, for it's always a victory to make him _snort_ in amusement.

"Shut up," He nudges me.

"I didn't say anything," I grin wider.

He flicks my forehead. "You didn't have to say anyTHING-! No, Dorothy-"

"Flick me, well you?" I crackle, knocking his book down and sitting on his legs, fingers digging into his sides as he squeals and tried to squirm away.

"Stop, or else I swear I'll-" he gasps in between laughter "-Or I'll get you back twice as hard!"

I snicker and don't stop. "Do you plead?" I ask haughtily, pinning one of his hands down while I tickle him with my other and he attempts to push me away. _'So sensitive~.'_

"Yes! Yes! Uncle!" he yelps.

I laugh and roll off of him. He still pushes me off the bed, red faced, and angrily leaves the room while slamming the door. I get up to sit back on the bed, grinning, when a few seconds later he comes back for his book without making eye contact.

"I hate you," he mutters when leaving for the second time.

"Love you too, little bro!" I yell back teasingly. I know he's plotting of how to get back at me, because in a physical fight he _knows_ that I'll always win. (Plus he hates physical fighting to begin with. Something about getting 'dirty.' He much prefers cutting words and blackmail.)

I'm not worried, though, because while he isn't a fully and normal emotionally functioning kid, I know he won't _truly_ try to hurt me like the others. Maybe try to steal my share of supper, depending what's on the menu. Or hide my own library books until I apologize -most likely demanding that I do it on my knees, too.

I snort at the mental image. _'It would certainly appease the prat's large ego.'_

* * *

I will PM all those that review. And if you're guest then your reply will be posted along with the next chapter.

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think of Dorothy, and my take on Tom?

**2.** Is there anything you wish to see in future chapters?

**3.** What was your favourite part?

**4.** What was your least favourite part?

**5.** Did you see any mistakes?

**6.** Do you have any questions?


	2. All I Ever Need

_Dear Little Brother,_

_Fuuuuuuucccckkk. Wholly fucking hell! What did I ever do to deserve_ this?

_Dorothy Rionach Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Wool's Orphanage._

_It took me an entire fucking year to finally know my_ -our- _last name, and the name of this run-down_ _orphanage. I am_ not _pleased, not pleased_ at all.

 _I had already guessed that I was somehow reincarnated in the past (which isn't fucking fair -I wanted hover cars, damnit, not to be discriminated against because people are so fucking sexist, both men_ and _women) because of the way people are always dressed and their behaviour, but let me tell you that it's another thing entirely to be reincarnated into a goddamn_ fictional universe.

 _And then to have_ you _as a twin, on top of it all?_

_Yeah, when I finally meet God, Fate, Life, Death, or whomever is fucking responsibly for my situation, I'm fucking sucker punching them in their goddamn faces._

_I'll admit it, the thought of suffocating you in your sleep_ has _crossed my mind, more than once. I mean, I'd be saving Britain a lot of trouble in doing so. So many people wouldn't have to die, to walk through hell, and so many future_ _orphans could still grow up with their parents. I could save_ two _wars before they even get the chance to begin._

_I wouldn't be charged, either, since I'm only a year old. Who would blame a toddler in committing cold-blooded murder? They'd label it an accident, bury your little body, and move on in their lives. I might be bullied later on when other kids eventually find out, but honestly I could care less what a bunch of snot nosed prats think of me._

_I can't do it, though. Fuck me and my weak heart, but no matter how many times I try to remind myself of all the horrors that you will commit, I just...Can't. Your eyes are too big, too innocent and full of wonder, your body too squishy, small, and adorable, and your habit of hugging me and following me around too damn cute. I swear my heart tried to burst out of my chest when your very first steps was towards me, not Mrs Coles for anyone else, and every time you babble "Doo"..._

_It's not fucking fair, but I learned that life has never been fair in my first life (apparently neither is death or reincarnation) and so why should I expect that to change this time around?_

_Despite my better judgment, I can feel myself growing attached to you a little more every day. I realized that I truly love you when a couple came to the orphanage age the other day, who were looking to adopt a baby girl. When it seemed like they were going to settle for me, but either couldn't or wouldn't take you as well...I panicked. Sudden fear, of me leaving you and you I, shot through me then. I hope you fucking appreciate me screwing my chances by throwing up on the woman._

_I just can't see Voldemort when I look at you. You don't have red eyes, your nose is still in place, your dark hair is ever so silky, your soul isn't torn, and your hands aren't stained red. Not yet, and I swear, if I have anything to say they never will be. You gurgle and tootle, not hold meetings on how best to murder and torture others. And you never will, even if I have to fucking tie you up and shove morals and common sense down your throat._ _This I vow._

_Maybe I'm just signing my death again. Maybe I haven't learned from my mistake. I don't know, but I do know that I absolutely refuse to have an insane and nose-less brother._

_Well, at least I'm going to be able to do fucking_ magic, _this time around, and keep my older sibling privileges. (Even if it's only by twenty three minutes.) Silver_ _linings and all._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**31th of** **December, 1935.**

"Happy birthday, Tommy!" I grin and hold out his presents. They're not wrapped, since I couldn't find wrapping paper anywhere and it would just be a waste anyways. Still, I used most of my sparse wages for these past three months working at the library in order to afford them.

He better fucking appreciate it.

And appreciate it he does. With wide, sparkling eyes, he greedily snatches the book and candy from me. "This is the brand new _Infant Chimpanzee And Human Child by_ N.N Ladygina-Kohts!" Tom breathes. "Where did you find this? Ms. Baker said that she wouldn't be able to order it for another month..."

Ms. Baker being the Liberian, and the only one around here that is willing to hire a couple of orphans for cleaning and other odd jobs around here. Nice lady, if a bit too trusting at times. (I caught Tom trying to steal a few books in the beginning, thinking that he should seize his chance while he can before Mrs. Coles finds out and tries to 'warn' Ms. Baker, but he gave in under the painful pinching of his ears and a long lecture about the right and wrong times to steal. Tom sulked and gave me the cold shoulder for a couple of days, but eventually forgave me when Ms. Baker gave us our own membership for free. I occasionally like to remind him that if not for me, he would have blown his chance at earning any kind of wage.)

Preening, I say smugly, "You're welcome. I also got you your favourite chocolate Deckers."

"Thank you, Dorothy," he tells me sincerely and gives a quick hug. "I'll retrieve yours. Stay here." He disappears from other side of our bedroom door, having hidden my own present much like I did his.

Little prat is good at hiding things, too, and I know because I tried looking for it. Ah well, I guess it's only fair since I don't let him peek either.

Tom returns minutes later with his hands behind his back. "Close your eyes," he orders and I do, left hand open and waiting.

Something flat and rectangular is put in it -like a notebook, I guess. Then Tom grabs my right hand and hands me another package. I open my eyes and grin down at my presents.

"I know this isn't the exact brand that you wanted, but-"

"Aw, Tommy, I love it!" I cut him off with a hug and a kiss on his flushed cheek. _'Adorable.'_ The art materials during this time isn't as good as in the twenty-first century, and especially with what we can afford with our pitiful wages, but I feel touched that Tom bought me an art notebook and artistic pencils nonetheless.

It's his turn to preen and turn awfully smug, and doing a terrible job of hiding it to boot. I can't help but laugh.

"Come on, and I'll draw you first."

"Can you do it by the twisty tree outside?" he asks, perking up. "I could have a garden snake on my shoulders, too."

I hesitate, glancing outside of our window. It's terribly sunny outside...

"Seriously, Dorothy?" Tom groans, giving a look that informs me exactly how ridiculous he thinks I'm being.

I bristle. Well, _excuse me!_ He wouldn't enjoy being under the sun's fucking hot rays if he died via skin cancer, either! "Don't give me that look, Tom," I narrow my eyes and reply waspishly.

"You won't die if you're outside for an afternoon," he continues flatly, ignoring my words and tone. "If you're so worried about gaining a bit of colour just cover yourself, like you usually do."

"It's too hot for that today."

"Then don't dress like a bloody nun."

"I can still draw you against the tree, with you actually inside, you know." Though now I don't particularly feel like it anymore...

"Fine. Wait here," Annoyed, Tom leaves the bedroom to go search for a snake in the _great_ outdoors.

 _'Prat.'_ I don't think this fondly, either. I half a mind to refuse him or to draw him in a dress for reminding me about my death. Maybe my anxiety wouldn't be so bad if I was able to bathe myself in sunscreen, but Wool doesn't 'waste' money on things such as that. As it is I do my best to stay away from the blasted sun, only going outside if it's gloomy and cloudy. And anytime I'm _forced_ (like the dreaded Sundays) I make sure that my fair skin is covered head to toe. I don't fucking care if I happen to look ridiculous.

(Such a drastic change from my past life. Olivia the Vain -the old me- would _weep_ if she saw me now. With my boring, itchy dress, rat's nest that I dare to call hair, pale as fuck skin, and tiny, bony, malnourished sticks for limbs. I wonder if my parents would even notice...Jacob and Nora would, at least.)

Tom reappeared minutes later with a grass snake draped across his shoulders. With his shoulders back and raised chin, it seems like he's trying play the part of a rich snob, but really he looks simply ridiculous. I don't bother to hold back a snort and I get an irritated glower in response.

I raise my brows, silently daring him to do something about it.

He turns to the window and ignores my bait.

"Hello, Speaker," the snake hisses.

"Hello," I greet back in parseltongue.

"The other Speaker promised me a juicy rat if I stayed," he informs.

"That's nice."

And so with him leaning against the window, staring off "in the distance" like in some cheesy romantic movie, and the snake hissing lazily, I sit on the floor and draw.

He should be thankful that I'm a person with mercy, and decided against giving him a frilly dress. _'Although his expression if he saw it would be fucking_ hilarious...'

* * *

**March 4th, 1936.**

"Don't do it, Dorothy," Tom hisses in my right ear.

I turn to him with an expression so fake that Barbie would be jealous. "Eh? Do _what_ , dearest brother?"

He narrow his eyes. "Don't play dumb," he grips. "It doesn't suit you."

"Mr. and Miss Riddle," Mr. Wadsworth calls out sharply.

We both snap our heads up look at him, unaffected by his irritated look. "What?" We simultaneously and flatly question.

A muscle in Mr. Wadsworth jaw jumps. He hates us because we're consistently "stealing" first and second place in academics from his own son and our classmate, Peter, and he knows that _we_ know that he knows, so we never trouble ourselves by showing him fake respect that we do with most adults outside of Wool's. There's no use in trying to win him over when we all know that it's _never_ going to happen, after all. (Plus we've seen the looks that he gives Martha when he thinks none of us are watching.)

"Is there something that you would like to share with the rest of the class?" he challenges.

Mmm, well, half the class looks like they want to know but are trying to hide it, while the other half looks like they couldn't care less. _'How about your secret plans for wooing Martha? Or your awful taste in women -although I suppose that's evident in the plans of wooing_ Martha _in the first place.'_

It's clear that Tom and I are thinking similar things during the pointed glance that we share.

"No," Tom finally answers both stoically and curtly.

_'Read: fuck you.'_

"Then get back to your seat, Mr. Riddle."

Tom goes and sits in the middle row, on the complete opposite side of the classroom than I. Though not before shooting me one last non-verbal warning.

Mr. Wadsworth begins the third period, and I do my best to ignore his droning voice while I doodle. Both Tom and I are smart enough to skip a couple of grades, however Mr. Wadsworth is a petty man and refuses to recommend us when he believes Peter is more deserving. How do I know this? Well, you'd be surprised how much snakes can overhear. Anyways, thanks to his own insecurities (not Peter's) Tom and I are doomed to die of boredom everyday, seven days a week. We can't even secretly pass notes to each other anymore.

My hands tingle painfully just thinking about it.

"Riddle!" Mr. Wadsworth barks.

Both Tom and I jump in mild surprise, eyes snapping to the front. I hear a few snickers from my childish classmates, as Mr. Wadsworth marches to my desk. I level my stare and don't look away, even as I feel my hairs stand on end and clutch my pencil tighter.

"How many times do I have to correct you?" he growls, pointedly glancing down to my left hand which held my pencil.

I can feel Tom's eyes boring into me, more than anyone else's. However I keep my own eyes locked with Mr. Wadsworth's. I don't reply because anything I say would be worse than breaking the no-lefties rule.

Which is complete and utter _bullshite._

"Stand up and face the class," he orders.

I do and go up to the front, holding my hands palm up, even as the shimmering anger at this unjust and bitter hate towards Mr. Wadsworth stirs within me. But then when he joins me in front of the class and takes his wooden yardstick, he shakes his head and says:

"No, no. You never learn that way. Drape your upper half over my desk."

 _"What?"_ I demand, shocked despite myself. And then when his meaning clicks inside my brain, it's like someone suddenly doused my flickering flames of anger with gasoline, causing it to _blaze._

How dare he! At least Mrs. Coles has the decency of doing it in the privacy of her office -but this _son of a bitch_ wants to do it right here, right now for the whole class to see my humiliation!

"Sir, I don't think-"

"Sit down, Mr. Riddle, unless you wish to share your sister's punishment," Mr. Wadsworth cuts him off icily.

Tom grounds his teeth together, scowling darkly and gripping the edges of his desk harshly.

_"Now."_

Tom stiffly sits back down, but with an even darker expression if it's possible.

It's hard to tell who would cause Mr. Wadsworth to die a horrible, painful death from looks alone -Tom or myself.

"Today, Miss Riddle. Unless you would prefer I add in another two strokes?"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You are not excused," I spit angrily. "Hit my hands until they're raw, or take away all of my breaks. I don't care, but _I will not_ bend myself over so that the class can watch as you spank me like a fucking toddler!"

There's a few gasps in the crowd for my vulgar language. I don't give a shite.

"That's ten," Mr. Wadsworth threatens. "We do not use that kind of language in this school, and unless you want to go to the Principle's office you will take your punishment! You know the rules!"

Instead of answering verbally I spin on my heel and storm away. But before I can even reach the classroom's door I feel a hand yank my right arm back -and then I'm being pushed on top of a desk.

"Wha-OW!" I cry out when the unforgiving yardstick whacks my arse much harder than necessary. I struggle, but with a strong hand pinning my shoulder blades down that's all I can do. _'I'm going to fucking kill him!'_ If I thought my anger was blazing earlier, it's a fucking _forest fire_ now -and then suddenly Mr. Wadsworth lets off when he screams and there's a sound of something clanging on the ground.

I scamper away and turn around to see what the bloody hell happened. I see Mr. Wadsworth, wide and teary eyed with equal measure disbelieve and pain, as he hides his nose with both hands, droplets of blood slipping past his fingers and falling onto the floor. The yardstick lay forgotten by his feet. I also see dark satisfaction on Tom's face. The rest of class seems just as shell-shocked as the teacher.

I wonder if it was me or Tom that caused this.

"Dad!" Peter gapes.

"The freak broke Mr. Wadsworth's nose!" Cries another student, and now it's as if a dam broke and everyone is freaking out and yelling out accusations.

Tom's chair clatters and falls when he abruptly stands, and together we flee the room. Nobody stops us as we run through the halls and outside, and we don't stop until we're hidden in the forest behind the dreadful school.

Breathing harshly despite not running for that long -because my stamina completely _sucks_ in this body- and demand; "What happened back there?"

"The yardstick suddenly swung upwards and hit Mr. Wadsworth in the nose. I'm pretty sure that it broke it," Tom gasps.

The words "like magic" hangs heavy in the air.

"...Did you do it?"

"I don't know," he admits quietly. "I was angry enough, I wanted him to hurt and stop hitting you, but..."

But so did I. It all went by so fast that I can't tell...But...Does it even matter? _'_ _No, no it doesn't,'_ I decide. I don't regret Mr. Wadsworth getting injured like that -in fact, vicious satisfaction slithers inside of me when I recall his shocked and pained expression. Motherfucker deserved it. I mean, who just grabs a student like that? And hits them with _that much_ force, repeat rule-breaker or not? He's had it in for us since third grade, when he finally realized that his darling son is never going to surpass us.

"Do you think I'll be expelled?" I wonder.

"I don't know," he repeats. "But I did tell you not to do it!" he reminds me with narrowed eyes. "You're ambidextrous, Dorothy. I don't know why you insist on making it harder for yourself!"

Yeah, I'm ambidextrous because adults have been trying to train me to use my right hand since we were toddlers, but I was left handed as Olivia and I stand by it! "Shut up," I scowl at him. "I refuse to give that bastard the satisfaction of winning, that's why!"

"Your stubbornness is only going to get you in trouble," Tom sniffs all-knowingly.

* * *

**March 11th, 1936.**

Indeed, Tom is right in the regard that my stubbornness getting me into further trouble. On the same day of the Yardstick Incident the Principle calls Mrs. Coles in order to inform her that I am officially expelled. The official report is that mid-punishment I had turn around, snatched the stick from Mr. Wadsworth, and gave a mighty _whack!_ The Principle never tries blaming Tom alongside me, but Tom flat out refuses to attend without me so now we're both in deep shite with Mrs. Coles and school-less.

It's been a week since then, and currently Tom and I are locked inside of our bedroom. Mrs. Coles found our rope so now we can't even scale down the wall in order to sneak in the kitchen and steal some food. So far, within these mind-blowingly bored seven days, the only time we're allowed to eat and drink is breakfast. Even that's only a cold egg and a couple pieces of stale bread for each of us. And I know for a fact that Wool's Orphanage is well off enough to afford a richer meal -which only fuels my hatred towards the old bat and this blasted orphanage. We _'mercifully'_ get bathroom breaks after suppertime, and the only other time we're allowed out is in the morning and nighttime for bible reading and prayer.

I make sure to curse God out every single time. Inside of my own head, that is. (Sitting only stopped hurting after the third day since the Yardstick Incident -a result from both Mr. Wadsworth and Mrs. Coles's not-so-gentle touch.)

"I win," Tom announces without any fanfare, driving a line through three of his o's on the scrape of paper.

"What's the score, 31-34?"

"Yes."

I groan, flopping down on the bed and burying my face in the pillow. My poor stomach growls. "How much longer do you reckon the wretched old bat is going to keep us in here?" I wonder.

"Most likely for another five days, at least," Tom replies, picking at something on his shirt. "I don't think I've seen her face turn that shade of red and purple before."

I groan again.

"Why don't you draw?" he offers.

"I don't wanna..."

"Well I'm going to read," he scoffs and get up. He takes the library book that he checked out a while back.

"You've ready finished that twice," I point out.

"So?" he quirks a brow at me. "Do you see anything else to do?" he challenges, gesturing to our rather plain and bare bedroom.

Point to him. We ran out of books to read and games to play by the fourth day, and making random objects levitate can only be amusing for so long. Too bad that neither of us can break the bloody lock -and we've tried, both magically and non-magically.

_'Save us, Dumbledore...'_

Unfortunately, it's two years too soon for the wizard to make his appearance. We have nothing but ourselves and the spiders for entertainment and company.

Mmm, I wonder what Ms. Baker thinks about our disappearance...Mrs. Coles doesn't give one wit that Tom and I are almost never here in Wool's during daytime, so long as no police comes knocking nor the school bothers her about our attendance. Actually, I have it on good money that she rejoices the sight of our backs every time she watches us leave, and despairs every time we come back alive and well for supper. Therefore she has no idea that we work at the library after school and on the weekends, and will never think to inform Ms. Baker about us getting expelled and being grounded. I don't think Ms. Baker has tried to pay Wool's a visit, either, since I sure Mrs. Coles would come shrieking at us for our gale if she did.

Wouldn't want to let the rest of the town know how truly demonic we are, would we? Although, that doesn't quite line up with her uncaring nature when we're out and about most of the time...In any case, she wouldn't let us keep the jobs even if it's purely because she hates our guts.

I wonder when the day will come where she's finally had enough, and throws us out on our arses for good. I'm honestly shocked she hasn't already! _'Maybe she just doesn't want to give Wool's a bad reputation...It's not like Tom and I like to advertise the fact that we're_ _orphans, after all.'_

Yes, that must be it.

"What are you thinking about?" Tom inquires from the foot of the bed, his book laying forgotten on his lap.

"I'm wondering when Mrs. Coles will finally have enough and throw us out." I begin tracing patterns on the sheets lazily.

"Ah. Well, I say good riddance to when that day does come," he snorts. After a moment, he asks quietly while looking at the window; "Do you think we'll ever be adopted? Or will we simply grow out of this rotten place?"

"Do you _want_ to be? Adopted, that is?" I sit up and search his expression for... _Something._ Longing? Sadness? Anger? We've played off each other's imagination, and we often fabricate our new lives about what we'll do once we leave this place for good, but unlike a lot of orphans Tom barely talks about a life with parents.

He thinks about it. Until he finally locks eyes with me, saying very seriously and with raw honesty: "No. Although I wish to know what happened to our father, and sometimes I wonder what our lives would be like if mother survived...You're all I need, Dorothy. I don't need anyone else."

Well. How am I supposed to respond to _that?_

Tom's eyes widen. "Why are you crying?" He demands, confused.

"Stupid Tom," I sniff. With my throat closing in itself, and trying to blink away my tears (-which I never gave permission to fall, damnnit, it's ruining my tough image!-) I crawl towards him and wrap him in a tight embrace. "I love you too," I whisper into his soft hair.

Tom wraps his bony arms around my waist, like it's the most natural thing to do. "I'm not stupid," he grumbles just as quietly.

"No, no you're not," I laugh wetly.

* * *

Thank you to all those that favourited, followed, reviewed, and most importantly those that did all three!

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	3. The Holy Word Of God

_Dear Little Brother,_

_I fucking love irony._

_I really, really do. Except for dramatic irony, though -dramatic irony can go burn in the deepest depths of Hell, like the shite piece it is._

_Because dramatic irony, the situation where readers or audience know something that the characters don't, is basically every horror movie in a nutshell. Dramatic irony makes me want to rip my hair out in frustration and causes my throat to go hoarse because all of the characters are so goddamn_ stupid.

 _I mean, I specifically tell them not to split up, not walk in that room, don't answer the phone, that this is exactly not the time to get hot and bothered when there's a murderer in the house, and for fucks sake, DON'T RUN_ UP _THE STAIRS IF YOU CAN RUN_ OUT!

_Do they listen to me, though? Nooooooo!_

_And then they have the fucking nerve to act surprised when shite hits the fan and they get murdered!_ _Fuckers would have survived if they followed my goddamn advice._

_Other kinds of irony, however? Like verbal (AKA sarcasm)? Heavensent._

_I remember my old friend Clarissa; she loved writing stories. Was really good at it, too, but absolutely sucked at naming her characters. So she used to hit me up and I would ask a bunch of question about the characters before googling a name that sent me crackling._

_One time Clarissa tried practicing her Tragic skills, and so created a young teenage girl that was born and raised in people/sex trafficking. The girl ends up killing everyone via fire, and is then shipped straight to prison and put on death's row._

_I named her Alyson. For "freedom."_

_There was another time where Clarissa wrote a Naruto fanfiction and wanted me to name an amnesiac OC._

_I was grinning like a fucking loon when I sent back the name Kagome, which means "lost."_

_Point is, I adore irony. Almost as much as I enjoy puns. However, I've discovered I don't much like irony when it's used against me. Maybe it's some kind of karmic bullshite that Merope named me "Dorothy." Or maybe she had absolutely no creativity and picked my name because it's popular during this time. I don't know._

_That all being said...While you might dislike your name because it's common and boring, at least it doesn't make you want to burst out laughing and curl up into a ball of depression, while at the same time giving you the irresistible urge to kick God Himself where the sun don't shine...Before congratulating Him on the cleverness of it all._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister._

* * *

**January** **26th, 1937.**

"This is stupid," Tom says flatly. "Why are we doing this again?"

"Why, Tommy, I thought you loved our magical abilities." I widen my eyes in mock surprise, crouched down by a couple of budding flowers on the ground.

"You know I do, but I don't see how making flowers bloom is useful," he glances down at the plants in distaste and crosses his arms.

I snort. "You're just cross because you suck at this."

"You haven't succeeded yet either," Tom counters mulishly, only proving my point.

"But I'm closer to victory than you are," I retort smugly while gesturing my green/purple Plus flower which is only a couple of steps away from blooming, compared to his own plant which is but a wee sprout.

"You've had more practice!" he snaps back. "Don't think that I haven't noticed you sneaking out during the night without me, Dorothy."

"And yet not once have you joined me," I reply dryly. "Besides, we never had any rules on when we could and couldn't try."

I get a scowl and half-hearted glower in response.

"Come on," I sigh and tug him down next to me, "Stop pouting and just try again-"

"I'm not pouting," Tom grumbles and shakes my hand off.

"-Unless you're admitting that you're not powerful enough to create something?" I add with a sly sideways glance. "I mean, really, the plant is already half the work for you."

Just I had intended; my remark fills him with indignation and he gets that fiery, determined spark in his eyes. "Fine, I'll do it -and before _you_ do. I just wanted you know that this is stupid and pointless. The flowers won't last more than a few weeks."

His piece being said, we both turn to our flowers. I close my eyes, trying to find the warmth of my own magic. It's hard to describe it...It's sort of like a core that resides in my chest. And I'm so used to it that often I'm hard pressed to find it whenever I try something new. Like, I've preformed the levitation charm so much that it's become mindless -requiring little to no concentration depending on the object. Lighting a candle is harder, and my magic flows differently than it does with Wingardium Leviosa, however I've memorized the feeling and can do it with relative ease now. I think it's like a baby version of Incendio because all I've only been able to conjure up is enough for a single candle.

(I can still picture Tom's awestruck and jealous expression when I first pulled it off. He kept hounding me about it until he managed it himself, and even then he stayed up late at night for weeks until he was able to light multiple candles at once, the show off. He then tried to see how far he could control the little sprouts of fire, but quickly back-pedalled when he almost burned his fingers off. The bloody idiot. I convinced him to leave the playing with fire business alone until we're much older -and can afford fire safety equipment, so now we both keep to only candles.)

Lumos is also different than the two other spells, although it's much quicker to come than fire. I don't enjoy the way that it makes my fingers constantly pulse and twitch, though, so I rarely use it. Lastly there's Accio which was Tom's first accidental magic. Performing the summoning charm feels similar to levitating, only there always seems to be a phantom string connecting the object to my fingertips. Additionally, it's fucking _impossible_ do it if I can't actually see the object.

So far those are the only three spells that we can do purposefully. Any other tricks are only impossible subconsciously and when we're really emotional, like the Yardstick Incident, or the time Amy decided it would be funny to rip apart my library book so that I would get in trouble (I was _so angry_ at her and _so worried_ that Ms. Baker would fire me because the books in the library might as well as be her children) but then the pages mended themselves. Or the time that Billy thought it would be funny to chop my fucking hair off when I accidentally fell asleep in public space, and while Tom was somewhere else. When I woke up there were clumps of my black hair all over the floor, my back, and the couch. Obviously this really upset me -I felt violated, more than the other time that Nathan -one of Billy's lackeys- tried to shove a lizard in my mouth because "Freaks should eat like freaks." But then the next morning all of my hair grew back, much to the other prats' and the adults' horror.

(Tom, though, oh he was bloody _furious_ when he caught sight of my new hairdo, courtesy of the little shite. Even more than I was, if it's possible. While I was content with my plan of threatening to strangle him with my new hair (a total bluff, by the way, but one that I was certain would work), and causing carpets and chairs to suddenly move out from under him for a solid three weeks, Tom was decidedly not. As soon as he saw my head, and when we figured it out that Billy was the culprit (which wasn't hard at all, mind you. The little arsehole out right asked me if I "liked my new look") rage had flashed across Tom's face, and body practically shaking with the force of it all, when he stormed forward and shoved Billy, Billy ended up being blasted away instead and only stopped flying when he hit a tree trunk hard.

But even after that, I caught Tom attempting _again_ to butcher Billy's rabbit, which I stopped _again_. I convinced Tom that it wasn't a wise idea to push the bully even further; Billy never told on Tom for the blast (too terrified) but he might if he found his mutilated pet on his pillow. And that the nasty bruises on his back from hitting the tree was enough. I myself didn't end up scaring him with strangulation nor bewitched objects to make him fall -Tom's shove was more than enough, I figured. Still, for the next few days I kept a careful eye on Tom and his temper.)

There was also the time when Tom was about seven. It was during one of his pity-parties, and jealous over a stranger's perfectly fitted and clean shoes, his own shoes that were on his feet tidied themselves up. Even repaired a small hole on the bottom! They looked so much better than what they were originally that he got punished for supposedly stealing them!

Anyways, where was I? Right, the flower.

I find my core deep within me, think positive thoughts, and concentrate my magic to flow down my arms and through my hands, as I gently cup the closed petals. My magic tingles pleasantly as it continues to flow. After a while I stop and peek to see if anything changed. A single petal opened.

 _'Damn.'_ A little bit frustrated, I look to see how Tom is doing. His sprout grew a bit taller, but what is more telling about his progress was the pinched brows and set jaw. Tom removes his hands and checks my work over.

"How are you doing that?" he growls.

"What are _you_ doing?" I raise my brows.

He frowns, obviously frustrated himself with his minor progress. "I keep picturing it growing, but it isn't doing anything!"

"Does it tingle?"

"Sometimes," he admits slowly. "Should it?"

"I think so. I mean, it does when I do it and look how big mine is now," I shrug. "You just need to try to think past your frustration and think happy thoughts."

"Think happy thoughts," Tom repeats flatly with an equally unimpressed look.

"Oi, don't give me that look! I know it may sound ridiculous, but intent matters, right? Like when you're super pissed and your magic lashes out to hurt, why shouldn't the flower grow if you're in a loving, caring mood? And you can't find exactly be in that loving, caring mood if you're brooding," I point out.

Tom doesn't respond verbally, but I can see the gears turning in his head and the moment he bows to my superior intelligence. He focuses on his sprout, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, muscles relaxing, and tries again.

* * *

**March 18th, 1937.**

"Take one more step and you die," Tom threatens lowly, eyes narrowed into silts and just _daring_ me to try him.

"I said I was sorry!" I throw my hands up, exasperated. I swear, you knock down house of cards _one_ time..!

"I've already had to start over three times," he continues.

"Oi! The second time wasn't my fault!" I protest. "If you're going to accuse me of sabotage then at least have valid proof. Which an uncontrolled blast of wind _isn't._ I told you not to set up right by the open window."

"You said nothing of the sort!"

"Well, I _thought_ it."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes at me, continuing on his self-given task. He grumbles under his breath -something about my intelligence, I'm sure- as he carefully places down another red card. He only has about five left.

I sigh and flop myself down on a nearby chair. We're the only ones in the common room. Everyone else is either outside playing, cooking in the kitchen, or helping with errands. The library is also closed today, and the outdoors is much too hot for my usual layers today, which means Tom and I are stuck inside this awful place.

Just then Billy, Nathan, and another prat named Adam walks in, tracking mud all over the place. I tense and eye them warily -it wouldn't be the first time Billy and his gang decided to make a mess and blame Tom and I, after all.

Although it seems like I don't need to worry, because as soon as Billy looks away from his laughing friends, the smile is swiped off his face and he pales. "Come-Come on, guys," Billy tugs them away and quickly disappears as soon as he appeared.

"Stop smirking, prat."

"Why should I, _bint?"_

He unfortunately ducks the pillow that I chuck at his head.

"Oi! Watch the cards!" He snaps, maneuvering to block said house of cards from further (accidental) assault.

 _'Then don't evade the flying pillows.'_ "Watch your language, young man," I retort with a glower.

Tom arches a brow high, testily. "Remind me again who told the old man at the bakery -and I quote- to 'get his bloody head out of his arse,' while also calling him a shithead?"

"That's different!" I protest. "I was telling the _truth._ Besides, he kept harassing the worker. And we were all thinking it -I just said it," I add, sniffing with crossed arms.

"And how exactly is what I said worse than what you said?" He challenges.

"Someone your age shouldn't be swearing," I ignore his words. Why, if I did at his age when I was Olivia my Aunt would have washed my mouth with soap! She even _did_ do it a couple of times when I was twelve. That might be the only thing she has in common with the bitch that calls herself Mrs. Coles.

Tom scowls. _"Twenty three minutes_ is not that much older! We're twins!"

 _'Oh, honey, I'm a lot older than that.'_ Besides, I fucking _died._ I think I've long ago earned the right to cuss, with all of the shite I've been put through, thank you very much. Tom can wait until he's at least sixteen.

"You're not allowed to swear," is my only response.

"You say that it's okay for you use vulgar language because you were speaking the truth? Well, so was I," he sneers.

I gape. That little weasel! How dare he! Where does he get this attitude from? Because it's certainly not from -no, wait, yeah he _totally_ got his attitude from me. Damn.

Nonetheless, I stand up and crack my knuckles threateningly. Tom eyes me warily, leaning away slightly. This pleases me, and I fight the grin that tugs at my lips.

"Dorothy..." he trails off in warning.

I pounce. Tom yelps and scrambles away.

I laugh as I tackle him to the ground. He kicks me in the stomach -which, _ow-_ but I ignore it and pin him down, sitting on his flailing legs and restrain both of his wrists above his head. And then I begin tickling.

"No-! Dorothy, sstaapp!" Tom gasps, twisting and wiggling.

Crackling, I tease; "Oh, I'm _sorry._ I can't hear you because I'm just a bint!"

"Fine! I'm sorry!"

"What are you sorry _for?"_ I pause so that he can catch his breath.

He scowls and glares up at me. I grin deviously in return.

"I'm sorry for calling you a bint," he grouses, lying through his teeth.

"I accept your heartfelt apology," I say sweetly before getting off of him.

He straightens his shirt and mutters "brute" under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, when he's out of tackling range.

I grin, but before I can respond Martha comes storming in.

"What's all this noise about?" She demands.

And just like that, my playful mood evaporates as I'm reminded about the woman's _unfortunate_ existence.

"It's called having _fun,"_ I can't help but drawl. "When was the last time you had it? When dinosaurs walked the earth?"

Tom snickers openly.

Martha gives us both a dark look. "If you have time to fool around then you, girl, have time to help prepare lunch. Boy, Camilla could use a hand with the little ones outside."

I shudder at the idea of going outside. Better him than me, I say.

Her eyes catch a spot on the ground, and her nostrils flares. "Which one of you made this mess?" She accuses waspishly, gesturing to the bit of mud left on the floor.

"It was Billy, Nathan, and Adam," Tom informs her, irritated.

"Don't lie to me, boy, I just saw them in their room. Both of you can clean this up before helping in the kitchen and outside. Now!" She snaps when neither of us makes a move.

We glance at each other, conversing our shared annoyance. And just to be spiteful, we both move at a snails pace.

* * *

**June 6th, 1937.**

"Mrs. Bennett, may Dorothy and I be paired up?" Tom looks up all doe-eyed at the teacher, the perfect image of innocence.

I withhold my snickers, remembering all of the times that he's stood in front of the mirror to practice it.

"Of course, Mr. Riddle-"

"Hey! Why do _they_ get to choose their partners?" A kid named Alex rudely interrupts Mrs. Bennett.

"Yeah! It's not fair!" other classmates agree loudly.

"They _always_ work together."

"I want Emma to be my partner!"

"I'm going to work with-"

"Enough!" Mrs. Bennett snaps and gives the class a very stern look. Eventually, the class settles, and she continues; "The Riddles are very well behaved, and can focus on their schoolwork even when paired-" the _"unlike you lot"_ goes unsaid but not unheard "-And so if you can show me that you can do the same, _with the teammates I've already paired up,_ then maybe you too can choose who to work with next project. Deal?"

No one's happy about that, but aside from some grumbling and pouting, they don't protest further.

"Right," Mrs. Bennett exhales. "Miss Underwood and Miss Bellsoth you're together, Mr.-"

I ignore Mrs. Bennett and instead push my desk up against Tom's. We immediately get to work without a word; I on the craft and artistic portion and Tom on gathering and writing all of the information. After cutting all of the loose leafs I snatch Tom's glue from his pencil case -my own being lost- and glue them together as to make it a book.

I glance over to Tom to check on how he's doing, and see he's already writing paragraphs down neatly and beautifully, the social textbook open on the other side of him.

 _'Prat,'_ I grouses mentally. Really, it's awfully unfair how his handwriting can be mistaken for print. I mean, my own isn't terrible, but...He's only ten, goddammit. Ten year olds shouldn't have that good of a handwriting, nor skilled in cursive.

_'Then again, ten years old don't usually read the high comprehension level that he does, or is a mentally scarred nineteen (twenty nine?) year old like me.'_

"Are you almost finished?" Tom asks me.

"No, I need to read your information so that I can visualize it correctly," I answer.

He nods. "Almost done the first page."

Mrs. Bennett says that we have four days to complete this little project, due at the end of Friday, but Tom and I manage to complete it by the end of the school day. (Meanwhile I notice that our classmates have been fooling around or getting into arguments more than anything, like usual.) It isn't very impressive, just a makeshift paper book that's drawn and coloured prettily and pieces of other paper that holds paragraphs glued on it.

But we're in Year Five (grade four) and so when we hand it in to Mrs. Bennett she is very pleased indeed.

"Very well done, Mr. and Miss Riddle," she praises while flickering through it. "Excellent presentation and thorough knowledge."

Tom preens like a bloody peacock. I settle for a simple "thank you."

"Everyone, look over here," she addresses the class. "This is a great example of the project. Neat handwriting, and explains _exactly_ what happened to _both_ sides of the war, when it happened, and what came over it. There is hardly any blank or white space, too." Mrs. Bennett is slowly flipping through and showing the class as she speaks.

Just then the final bell rings, and everyone scrambles to escape.

"Oh, Mr. and Miss Riddle, if you'd stay behind for a moment, please," Mrs. Bennett calls when we move to do the same.

A few classmates snicker and "ooooh," which I restrain myself to a simple eye roll towards them and not the bird. Although it's only because Mrs. Bennett and most of the other teachers here in West Wood think we're literal angels, and Tom has threatened to withhold his trousers if I send that image up in flames. _'Children.'_ Tom and I glance at each other.

 _'Reckon we're in trouble?'_ I quirk a brow at him.

 _'I doubt it,'_ Tom dismisses silently.

Tom is hardly one to give a single fuck about what anyone thinks who isn't himself or I, but I know a large part of him revels in our positions being reversed here in school compared to Wool's. He _likes_ how, in the eyes of the adults, he's ten times more trustworthy than any other kid. Of the leeway, privileges, and power that it gives him.

And honestly, who can blame him? Being the teachers; pet certainly has its benefits, no matter how much its scorned and teased by immature prats.

Once the classroom is deserted, I ask, "Ma'am? Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all, Miss Riddle," Mrs. Bennett reassures me. "I just wanted to talk to you about possibly...Transferring schools next year."

This certainly peaks our curiosity. We glance at each other again before Tom questions:

"I don't think I quite understand. Will this school not have the Sixth Year next school year?"

She shakes her head. "No, it's not that. You two are the most brilliant students that I've had since I started working here, and I don't want to see your bright futures waste away when further schooling don't usually..." she hesitates, "Aren't usually eager to take past students from here when they've passed the Tenth Year. You know that this is a school for _special_ children, but..."

Yes, we know. West Wood is really the only school in the area that will take in the troubled, would-be delinquents. Which is why the Principle accepted us after the reputation we left with Mr. Wadsworth. Because of this West Wood is seen as the worst to the other schools, especially the High Schools.

"I know a fellow teacher in Peak Willows, and so I think we can get you in with your outstanding grades. I think it would be really good for you two. You can make friends other than with yourselves, and be academically challenged there," she adds.

I smile, albeit a bit sadly. My chest warms at her genuine care and attention -she's the best teacher I've had in this life. "We're flattered, Mrs. Bennett, really, but-"

"-We don't think Mrs. Coles would agree," Tom finishes. "See, with so many other orphans to provide for..."

Mrs. Bennett frowns. "The price of enrollment isn't that terribly different. Tell you what, I'll talk to Mrs. Coles about it, okay?"

_'You can try, although you'll be needing a fuck ton of rabbit feet.'_

We say our thank you's and leave shortly after. West Wood is further away from the orphanage than our old school is, which the rest of the appropriate-aged orphans are still enrolled in.

 _'Just one more year,'_ I think to myself.

* * *

**July 13th, 1937.**

"Bugger off," I groan, pulling the blankets over my head and turning away from the persist _parasite._

Said parasite continues to shake my shoulder and poke my ribs. "Come on, Dorothy, we leave in twenty minutes. Do you _honestly_ want one of the adults coming up here?" He challenges.

"I _want_ to fucking _sleep."_ My voice is muffled from the warm and cozy blanket, but I know he hears me.

"It's not _my_ fault that _you_ decided to stay up until the sunrise reading," Tom retorts."I _told_ you that you'd regret it later."

He proceeds to try to rip the blanket off of me, but I tighten my grip on it and curl it closer around me. I consider the idea of letting go so that he would fall on his arse, but I ultimately decide that it wouldn't be worth the blast of cold air.

 _"Dorothy-!"_ He's whining now. "I know you don't like church-"

"Damn right, I don't!"

"-But neither do I, and if you're not ready when Martha is you'll get the rod, _again,"_ Tom adds.

I stay silent at that. He's right after all; Martha won't hesitate to bend me over if I don't get my arse in my Sunday best. Especially if I'm still in bed when she starts counting heads before going out.

Doesn't mean that I have to fucking like it, though.

I groan, slowly letting myself slip off the springy bed. The cold wood touches my bare calves and feet, and I shiver. "I hate you," I give my smug twin a well practiced stink-eye.

"I know," he responds flippantly. "I grabbed you a piece of toast. It's on top of the desk," he gestures to it.

"I hate you a little bit less." My stomach does, anyways.

I sigh and force myself to get up and get dressed. I only have one Sunday dress, an old fashioned purple one with yellow flowers on it. Thankfully it covers my ankles, and my dress shoes aren't open toed, but I still slip on my ratty jacket as to cover my forearms and neck and thin gloves for my hands. Lastly I don my black winter hat and pull a white scarf -which I found in a random Lost And Found- up to hide most of my face.

I look bloody ridiculous. But it's either this or feel the torturous, blazing sun on my poor defenseless and fair skin. (It's not even a choice.)

"Ready," I tell Tom, and then we go down stairs together.

Absolutely no one bats an eye at my attire, not even the strict and mad Martha. They are _far_ too used my particular brand of bullshite after ten years of it. On the other hand, I think they might just die of shock if I _didn't_ cover myself like this -Tom included.

(Even as a baby I wouldn't let them take me outside when it was sunny out. Shrieked bloody murder _every single fucking time_ until they finally took the goddamn hint. I swear, even if one couldn't see my skin turning pink from the burns, I could _feel_ the sun scorch _every fucking spot_ of me that it touched. It makes bile raise in my throat, gut churning, just thinking about it. Even hours after going outside unprotected my skin still crawled with an unbearable and unrelenting itch.)

Fun fact: There are far too many orphans for us to all go, so those between the ages of thirteen and seventeen are the only ones to go. By that age one basically waits to age out of the system, because everyone only wants babies, toddlers, or little kids. No one wants teenagers, and so the population is a lot smaller than the younger groups, and therefore much easier for Martha to handle. (Those younger than thirteen only need to suffer through morning and nightly prayer and bible reading, again commanded by Martha.) However Tom and I, as the Demonic Twins, have been the exceptions since we were six. Martha seems to think that she can exorcist the evil out of us from pure boredom that is the one hour of weekly church mass.

I laughed in her face when she finally admitted to this delusion when we were eight. She did not find it funny nor appreciate my nerve. Neither did my poor bum and empty stomach afterwards.

(When I was simply Olivia, I was not raised to believe in Christ or any other form of God, though I did have a friend whom was Mormon and she roped me into attending her church a couple of times. It wasn't too bad everything considering, despite Mormon church being two hours longer than Catholic. The people there were very welcoming, not pushy at all, and the Young Woman's Leader brought homemade cookies for after the lesson. Now, though? _...Oh-!)_

"Is everyone ready?" Martha asks, eyes sweeping through the line of teenagers in front of the door.

No one replies, and so we move out. The church isn't very far from the orphanage, and so it only takes us a twenty minute walk. It isn't a particularly large church either, the simple and classic white building with a giant cross on top and built out of red brinks on the bottom half. There's even a graveyard behind it (which isn't a complete and creepy disaster unlike in movies)! The church is very old, but still in good condition both inside and outside.

We walk right in, some smiles and greeting between Martha, the teenagers, and other people. Our group automatically takes one of the middle benches, easily the longest, and gets settled in. I take my 'unnecessary' layers off and put it beside me, Tom on my other side of course. Martha is on the very far end of us, with no way to see us unless she gets up and walks around.

_'Excellent.'_

Let the grueling, torturous hour of idiotic worship begin.

I close my eyes, rest my head on Tom's bony shoulder, and go right back asleep just as a Priest starts talking. I don't think that I'm gone totally, but when Tom nudges me awake for the second time I sleepily realize that more time has passed than I thought. I straighten and stretch my stiff back, arms, and neck, earning myself quite a few refreshing cracks. Around us, everyone is either gathering their things and leaving or idly standing and chatting around. I know that Martha and some of the teenagers will be doing the later, so I don't bother getting up.

"Did you hear the announcement?" Tom asks me.

"What? No," I blink.

He scowls, glaring to one of the Priests at the front and Martha by one of the other benches. "Apparently a few Priests are holding a _special_ session for kids seven years to twelve years old next week, and Martha has already signed you and I for it. It's supposed to last two hours - _after_ the usual mass."

"Seriously?" I demand.

He nods, displeased about it himself. While Tom doesn't share my (rightful) hatred and grudge against religion, he still personally finds the practice of worshiping someone else distasteful, that being proven real or not. He's a very calculative and pessimistic/realistic boy, one that doesn't believe in things that he can't either feel, hear, see, or touch. But at the same he realizes that he and I can perform actual, real fucking _magic,_ and so he's on the fence on whether God truly exists or not. Plus, a part of him wars with that calculative, pessimistic/realistic side with the appealing idea of being _so_ _special_ that God Himself gave us our magic, and no one else. Tom has always _loved_ being special.

I groan and sink down in my seat. Bloody _fantastic._

* * *

**July 20th, 1937.**

The following week passes by _much_ too quickly for my taste, and now Tom and I find ourselves in a group of ten kids, all ranging from the ages of seven and twelve.

Honestly, Tom and I planned on slinking off as soon as Martha and the other orphans left, but the miserable and shoddy excuse for a human being (that being Martha) _personally_ escorted us to the Priests' clutches before flouting off.

Apparently the four Priests in front of us decided that having this little get together with the children is a _brilliant_ way to connect and build stronger testimonies, and they have a different lesson planned for the teenagers. Currently, us kids are sitting front row as the Priests stand across and lecture. We're supposed to be going over Jesus's Great Sacrifice, and how Wonderful And Holy He Is and how Grateful We Should Be, how much God Loves Us, and how They and The Holy Ghost Will Help And Guide Us if we only stay True and Good and Listen, blah blah _blah._

"Dorothy?"

"Huh?" I lift my head from my nails. Beside me, Tom has his elbow resting on the bench's arm and gazing out of a window, utterly bored as I am with the conversation.

The Priest that spoke earlier -a middle aged man with light hair and square glasses- says; "I asked you if there was any time where you felt the Holy Ghost speak to you."

I snort, loudly. "No," I answer honestly. "And I never _want_ too." I pause, before correcting myself; "No, wait, that's lie. I haven't spoken to any ghosts yet, but if I ever _do_ get a chance I definitely have a few choice words for them." Most of them being nasty slurs, but words nonetheless.

I get frowned at by all of the Priests.

One of the others speak up, this one nearing Grandpa years with a slight beard. "You shouldn't be so disrespectful," he scolds, "I doubt your mother would have wanted to see this."

The comment about Merope snaps Tom back to the present. "What do you know about our mother?" he demands harshly, leaning in.

"Nothing," the old man admits gruffly, "But the name she gave your sister-"

"What does my name have to do with it?" I interrupt, confused.

I can see the annoyance building inside of him as he continues; "Your name, Dorothy, means 'Gift of God'-"

I don't hear whatever else he spews. Only the words _"Gift of God"_ keep repeating in my head like a broken record. I'm so shocked that I jump when Tom places a hand on my arm, frowning with worry as he looks at me.

_'I can't fucking believe it! My name- my name actually...'_

"I realize that you don't have much faith yet, however-"

"Wait, what?" I interrupt the old Priest again, both brows raised to my hairline. "I'm sorry, but do you think that I _don't believe?"_

He pauses, and that's all the answer I need.

I burst out laughing. Everyone's startled expression only fuels me, and now I kneeling on the ground and hugging my middle. Oh - _ouch_ \- it's actually starting to hurt now, but- I glance back at the Priests, and find myself unable to stop no matter how much it hurts.

 _"Dorothy!"_ Tom hisses in my ear. He tries to get me stop and to stand up, but I just helplessly shake my head and go limp.

"What's so funny?" A Priest questions me.

I can only gasp in response, tears streaming down my face. _'Ow, ow, ow!'_ But oh, this is absolutely priceless! They don't think that _I fucking believe-!_ And my _name-!_

White hot fury rushes through my veins at that reminder, choking and killing some of the hilarity. _'My fucking_ name.' How fucking _dare_ He? How fucking dare _Merope?_ I never pondered on my new name that much, aside from it reminding me of the Wizard of Oz. But now -now that I _know..._

Gift of God, indeed.

Karma's certainly a right bitch.

I've stopped howling by now, clenching my fists and trying to breath past the suffocating _hatred_ instead. I taste the overwhelming bitterness on my tongue, and the sharp bite of my nails cutting open my palms helps me focus. Eventually, with everyone's eyes burning holes into me I raise my head to lock eyes with the bewildered Priests.

I grin up at them -all sharp, glinting teeth and no mirth- as I inform them darkly; "You folks have the wrong idea. I _do_ believe in God and a Higher Power. In fact, I have all the faith in the entire world that He exists -it's just that I fucking _Hate. His. Guts."_

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you guys think about Dorothy's feelings on God and religion?

 **2.** What are your opinions on the magic that the twins have shown so far?

 **3.** What was your favourite part?

 **4.** What was your least favourite part?

 **5.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **6.** Do you have any questions?


	4. A Whole New World

_Dear Little Brother,_

_Tell me, what do you feel when your reflection looks back?_

_I bet you don't feel anything. Oh, maybe you feel curiosity while you check yourself over, or maybe a smudge of worry when you're trying to find something wrong with your appearance, like food stuck in your teeth or a spot of dirt on your nose._

_But it seems perfectly normal to you, doesn't it, you lucky bastard, to look into a mirror and see a skinny, pale, black haired and brown eyed little boy._

_You don't experience any kind of dissociation or alienation, do you?_

_It doesn't take you off guard when you don't see a nineteen-year-old girl, head full of shiny and well-groomed blonde hair, dark tanned skin, sharp cheekbones, and with bright green eyes staring back. (Or even that same nineteen year old, only paler, with wary dull eyes, and bald. A girl with a new found bitterness in her heart and burning hatred for the world.) You don't feel so utterly_ tiny _when you realize how high up everything is now, when you used to be a proud 5 feet and 8 inches._

_You don't_ expect it.

_Your skin doesn't crawl, like itty bitty bugs climbing all over you, and I know for a fucking fact that you don't cause your arms to bleed by consistently picking at the itch that_ just won't fucking leave.

_When you think of me, you don't recall that tall, hot (if I do say so myself) blonde that loved to water ski and drawing outside on the warm beach. That young woman who used to be a little girl whom never stopped talking and made new friends left and right. Who's Mum wanted her to be fluent in Spanish, but was just not interested and therefore never learned more than a few words and sentences._

_Instead your mind congers up the image of a pip squeak of girl, the same height as you, with those same brown eyes, pale skin, and long dark hair that makes you wince just looking at it._

_You know of your twin sister that_ despises _the sun and all it symbolizes, who is just as fiery and hard-headed as the blonde, only a bit more twisted and bitter at the world, and a lot more reserved._

_Maybe you think your sister is an airhead, because sometimes you notice the distant look in her eyes and realize that she isn't all there, and you're reminded that she doesn't always react to the name "Dorothy" or "Riddle."_

_You might call her dotty or weird when she says strange things and uses slang that you've never heard before. But that's because you don't have the laughter and voices of ghosts ringing in your ears._

_You don't know that the blonde used to have a younger brother and sister. That she helped raise them when her Mum was too busy smiling for the cameras and her Dad was out of the country for long business trips._

_Of the grand fun she would have with her friends during Halloween, dressing up as all sorts of characters and monsters, and how_ good _she was at her debate club._

_When you think of home, the image of an orphanage that's neither rich nor poor comes to mind. A dull two-story building with looming gates all around the property and a forest behind it all. Even if it doesn't feel like home in the slightest._

_It's not a giant, sunny and spacious house that's on the verge of being a mansion. That despite it's size never feels lonely -not when the smell of cooked bacon penetrates the air so often that it starts to bleed into the very walls and furniture, or when the pulsing sound of music spills out of the little sister's room, which you can still hear on the other side of the house._

_Your closet is occupied with woolly, slightly itchy clothes and hand-me-downs. Not brand new, colourful and expensive clothing that's all-too soft to the touch._

_You've never once experienced the pure joy and freedom that comes when racing on a horse, unlike the blonde who would do it every time she visited her Aunt's farm. Never attempted to sneak away from that very same Aunt, lest you're tasked to pick up after from stinky animal._

_People don't tell dumb blond jokes by or to you in the hopes of being annoying, or wince and sheepishly apologize once they realize their mistake._

_You don't wake up one morning, confused as hell as to why there's a small body wrapped around you and you wrapped around it, because your younger siblings were never ones to have nightmares and need comfort in the middle of night._

_You don't have to remind yourself first thing in the morning that your white ceiling isn't one belonging to a hospital, with machines and the sound of beeping surrounding you, and the stale taste of shite hospital food waiting to be eaten, but instead you are in the body of an orphaned child, in a completely different time and universe._

_And for all your smarts, daydreaming, and future plans, you haven't spent five years preparing for your high-paying future job. Haven't bled nor sweated for it, only for it to be cruelly ripped away from you at the last possible second._

_You don't know that life nor that young blonde woman. And to be perfectly honest, little brother, some days I wish I didn't either._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**June 3rd, 1938.**

"Why do you keep looking outside? Who are you waiting for?" Tom asks curiously.

_'I'm just waiting for a wizard to burn our closet down, is all.'_ "No one," I shrug and lie, turning away from the window looking out to the front gate.

The look on Tom's face is very unimpressed. "Don't lie to me, Dorothy. You've been gazing out windows and checking out people all last month. So whom are you waiting for?"

"Alright, fine," I sigh. "I really don't't know-" another lie "-I just have this _feeling_ that's something supposed to happen.'

He scrutinizes me, glances out the window, but then seems to give up for the moment. "Do you want to play cards?" He offers instead.

"Sure," I respond and get up from the windowsill. I give the window one last look before leaving.

I wish Dumbledore would haul his arse already. All this waiting is driving me crazy!

* * *

**July 14th, 1938.**

"Dorothy, dear, can you show this young man where the history books are?" Ms. Baker asks me just as I approach the front desk, having just cleaned up a mess that some tosser left on one of the chairs.

I look to the average height, brown haired man about twenty-five years old. He must be new since I don't recognize him, and while I don't know everyone's name I know all of the regulars faces'.

"Sure," I answer easily and set the spray bottle and cloth that I just used down on the desk. "What are you looking for?"

"History books on the World War," The man replies.

"Right. Come on." I turn and lead him to the nonfiction area, past the scientific lane and down the history one. I stop near the end and, scaling the shelves up one I nab a thick book with a blue spine. "Here you go," I hand it to him.

"Do you work here?" He asks.

"Yeah, me and my little brother Tom. We help Ms. Baker organize the books and clean."

Both of the man's brows rise in surprise. "Little brother? How old are you and your brother?"

"I'm eleven, and Tom is twenty three minutes younger," I smirk cheekily. Just ask if you need anything else," I add before walking away.

I glance at the clock to see that Tom and I have an hour left before the library closes. I go to help him with the recently returned books.

* * *

**August 1st, 1938.**

Its after sewing lessons one Friday afternoon when _it_ finally happens.

With my kit in my hands, I'm crossing the archway between the common room the stairs, Mrs. Coles office on my right. The door is closed, as usual, and I think nothing of it until partly up the stairs I hear a man inside ask:

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of the twins' history? I think they were born here in the orphanage?"

_'Hold the fuck up!'_ I almost trip and fall back down the stairs in shock, but thankfully grab the rail at the last second. Moving quietly but hauling my arse nonetheless, I hurry down and press my ear against the wooden door. My mouth dries and my heart pounds against my chest while I listen to Mrs. Coles's response:

"That's right. I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in and she had the twins within the hour. And she was dead in another hour."

_'Oh my God. This is_ actually _happening!'_ There's no doubt which kids they're talking about, but still, it seems so unreal!

"Did she anything before she died?" Motherfucking _Dumbledore_ inquires. "Anything about the children's father, for instance?"

"Now, as it happens, she did. I remember she said to me 'I hope they take after their papa,' -and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty- and then she told me that the boy was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for _her_ father. The girl she wanted named Dorothy, and then Rionach after another family member on her side. Funny names, aren't they? We wondered whether she came from a circus -and she said that their surnames was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. Well, we named them just like she said, it seemed important to the poor girl, but nor Tom, Marvolo, Rionach, or any kind of family ever came looking for them, so they stayed in the orphanage and they've been here ever since."

There's a long pause, until she adds; "Tom was a funny baby, hardly ever cried, you know. Though he was very attached to his sister, always following her around and holding her while he slept. Dorothy, though, she hardly ever _stopped_ crying. She was a bloody monster, honestly, always raging and nothing was able to calm her down. We were basically forced to let her cry herself to sleep or until her voice became hoarse and she had no tears left to wail with. Thankfully she grew out of that nonsense when she became a toddler."

_'It's called_ grieving _, you bint. You'd be a right mess if you_ fucking died _and found yourself trapped in the body of a helpless_ infant _, too!'_ There was nothing I _could_ do but rage and wail -and babies feel so fucking _much_ that it's worse than puberty, while sleep-deprived and on the utter emotional rollercoaster that are periods.

"What are they like now, if I may ask?" Dumbledore prompts.

"Oh, they're both terrible-" Mrs. Coles cuts herself off suddenly, before hesitating; "They definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," he assures.

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing."

"You'll be taking them away, whatever?"

"Whatever," Dumbledore repeats gravely.

"They scare the other children," Mrs. Coles finally admits after a tense moment. "Especially the boy."

"You mean they're bullies?"

"The girl is, definitely-"

_'Um, excuse you,'_ I think, offended. I am no such thing!

"-Always getting into fights with the other kids. I've lost count how many times Amy and other girls have come running to me or Martha, hurt and crying. I can still remember the time Martha told me about when she found Dorothy shoving mud in Billy's face while he was sobbing and curled up on the ground. And, while I have no proof of this, last year it was brought to my attention that Billy somehow got real nasty bruises and cuts on his back. He never said nor pointed any fingers, but it wasn't hard to see how terrified he became of her and her brother after it. She's a spiteful thing and hardly ever listens to any adult, plus she got expelled once because she broke a teacher's nose. She's also got a filthy mouth on her. No idea where she got it from."

Okay, first of all, _I_ didn't give Billy those bruises or cuts on his back. And while I admit to trying to shove mud in his mouth and stomping on his privets _was_ a bit of an overkill, I still stand by the fact that _he_ was the one who started it. (I just finished it.) Second of all, she obviously forgot about all the times where I had _bite marks_ on my arms from the vicious Amy. A lot of the times I didn't even _do_ anything! The girls hurt _themselves_ or made each other cry on purpose so that they could frame _me!_ (After I said something rude or wouldn't let them have their way.)

Bitch.

And, eh...I have no comments for the Yardstick Incident or my 'filthy mouth.'

"I..See," Dumbledore hesitates quietly. "And her brother? Tom?"

_'No, no you_ don't _see,'_ I seethe.

"He's a lot harder to catch than his sister. He's always been...Odd. Very serious and quiet, unlike Dorothy, and if I'm being honest something in his eyes or the way he looks at others sends a shiver down my spine. There's just something _off_ about him. Something wrong."

I snort, unable to help myself. He'd be happy to hear that he frightens her so.

"But there've been incidents, like the times where his old roommates would wake me up sobbing about finding snakes and dead rats in their beds. That was when he was seven, and it happened so much that I had to finally move Dorothy in with him. It's not proper, I know, but they're siblings and I was tired of constantly being woken up in the middle of the night, or hearing the shrieks first thing in the morning...He's very possessive of her, you see. Even at a young age. I mentioned him following her around as toddlers?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore confirms.

"Yeah, well you'd be hard pressed to find one of them without the other. When they were younger he would make her wait right outside the bathroom door for him, and him for her. Even now I can sometimes catch them doing it. Whenever someone comes looking to adopt a kid around their age or appearance, he's clinging to her arm and glaring viciously at them, as if afraid that they'd take her away from him. One time he actually spat in a man's face when he asked her name! I think he overheard the man commenting to me that he and his wife were only looking to adopt a girl."

There's another pregnant pause, both of them stewing in their thoughts I imagine. I resist the urge to open the door and reveal myself, but just barely. I want to know what else they'll say.

Mrs. Coles continues; "Strange things happen when they're around. I mean, sometimes I think my mind is playing tricks on me, but..."

"But...?" Dumbledore encourages.

"I don't know, but I _swear_ I've caught them moving things without touching them, or talking to the snakes outside. It's as if the snakes _understand_ them, which is mad, I know..."

"I imagine it's the stress getting to you, madam. It must be very difficult to run this orphanage with so many children," he comments calmly.

"Yes, yes of course it is. I'm just imagining things..." Mrs. Coles's voice is growing quieter as she continues, and her words seems a bit mindless to me...

_'Dumbledore must be using magic on her.'_

"Has anyone else imagined these things?" he questions.

"Martha," she answers immediately. I hear the creak of the wooden floor and the drag of a chair. "I suppose you'd like to meet the twins?"

"Very much," Dumbledore replies.

My eyes widen, and I immediately start running up the stairs when I realize that they're leaving.

"Oh, Dorothy!"

I freeze, right foot still on the top step, and slowly turn to look down at them. I curse myself mentally, positive that I must look guilty as sin. _'Great job, me! Couldn't have left a few seconds earlier, could you?'_ "Yes, Mrs. Coles?" I force myself to swallow and not glance to Dumbledore.

She gestures to him carelessly, and I can't help but notice how rosy her cheeks are. She's obviously been drinking again. "This is Mr. Dumberton -I mean Dunderbore. He's come to see you and Tom about attending his school. Why don't you show him to your room?"

"Sure," I say even as I struggle past my heart in my throat. This is the moment. The moment I've been waiting for for eleven years.

Dumbledore, while having long hair, a beard, and moon glasses, isn't grey-haired or old like he is portrayed in the movies. Instead his hair is auburn and his skin is young like the middle-aged man that he is. Which makes sense. And when I look at his clothes, I'm horribly reminded of how magical folk simply _do not get_ muggle fashion. Dumbledore's flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet is definitely...Eye catching, to say the least. He smiles at me pleasantly, but it doesn't reach his blue eyes.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Mrs. Coles tells Dumbledore before disappearing around the corner.

Dumbledore walks up the stairs, and I just stand there, rooted in place and watching like an utter idiot. "Shall we go?" He gestures to the hall, still smiling.

"Right," is all I can say, mentally kicking myself to stop gawking and _move,_ goddamn it. I lead him to our room and don't bother knocking before entering. Tom is reading on our bed, and looks up, surprised, to see a man behind me.

"Er, we got a visitor," I mumble lamely and go to sit beside him. God, why have I become so _awkward_ all of a sudden? Pull your shite together!

Tom shoots me a questioning look while Dumbledore pulls our chair to sit across from us. I just shrug.

"Who are you?" Tom asks rudely.

I inwardly cringe.

"I am Professor Dumbledore," he introduces himself.

"Professor?" Tom repeats, griping my hand tightly and shooting me an alarmed look. I can already see the gears turning in his mind, and the worstcase scenarios popping up first. "Like 'doctor'? What are you for? Did Mrs. Coles get you to have a look at us?"

"No, no," Dumbledore tries to reassure him, but Tom isn't having any of it.

"I don't believe you," he says through clenched teeth, glaring angrily. "She wants us looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" he commands loudly.

"Tom, enough!" I hiss, eyes narrowed and squeezing his hand hard. He winces and tries to pull away, but I hang on. "Let him explain!"

"You've heard Martha talking to her about-" he starts, but I interrupt again:

"Yes, but I think you should hear him out before assuming!"

Tom glowers, but grounds his teeth together and turns back to Dumbledore without a word.

"Thank you, Dorothy," he dips his head towards me. "As I was saying, I am a Professor for the school called Hogwarts. I have came to offer you and your sister a place at my school -your new school, if you would like to come."

Before he can get another word in, Tom leaps away from the bed and Dumbledore, dragging me along with him and causing me to let out a small squeak in surprise, with a furious expression. "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course -well, I'm not going, see? And neither is Dorothy! We never did anything to Amy Benson or Billy Stubbs, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," Dumbledore says patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you-"

"I'd like to see them _try,"_ Tom sneers.

I elbow him sharply in the ribs, which he returns.

Dumbledore continues as if Tom didn't speak; "Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities-"

"We're not mad!"

"Shut _up,_ Tom!"

"I know that you're not mad," Dumbledore speaks over us, "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

That finally shuts my brother up. He freezes, expression blank, but his eyes are searching Dumbledore's for any trances of lies.

"Tom?" I question, concerned, and letting go of his hand so that I can hug his shoulders instead.

"Did you just say 'magic'?" he questions quietly, intent eyes never leaving Dumbledore.

"That's right," Dumbledore smiles again, dipping in his head.

"So, so it's _truly_ magic that we can do?" Tom breathes, glancing at me with wonder.

"What is it that you two can do?" he quirks a brow, curious.

"All sorts, right, Dorothy?" Tom grins at me, eyes wide, and almost shaking with excitement. He sits us back down on the bed, across from Dumbledore.

I can't help my own wide grin, or the butterflies in my stomach. "Right," I agree. "We can make things move without touching them, light candles, or even make small plants grow," I inform Dumbledore proudly.

"Or hurt people that bother us," Tom pipes in, staring at his hands.

I wince, seeing Dumbledore's expression turn sour and remembering what the miserable old bat told him about us. _'Good job, Tommy.'_ I give him another, not at all subtle, jab of my elbow for that unneeded remark. He ignores me.

"I knew we were different," he whispers. "Dorothy and I. I knew we were special. Always, I knew there was something."

I (gently) take his hand again and squeeze. He squeezes back. I swallow the lump in my throat. I've been waiting for this moment for _eleven fucking years_ , and I just-

"Well, you were quite right," Dumbledore replies, no longer smiling but watching our facial reactions closely. "You are a wizard, Tom, and Dorothy, you are a witch."

Tom lifts his head to look at Dumbledore, feverish with wild happiness. "Are you a wizard, too?"

"Yes, I am," he confirms.

"Prove it," Tom orders at once, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Please," I add, just as eagerly.

Dumbledore raises both of his brows testily. "If, as I take it, you two are accepting your places at Hogwarts-"

"Of course we are!"

"-Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir'."

I see Tom's expression harden for a moment in the corner of my eye, but then it smooths out to a polite one, the same one that he uses with teachers at West Wood. "I'm sorry, sir. I meant -please, Professor, could you show us-?"

I notice the ghost of a smirk before Dumbledore takes out his wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and, pointing it at our wardrobe, sends it up in blazing fire.

As Tom rips away from me, bolting up and rounding on Dumbledore in shock and rage -I _crackle._ I clutch my middle, curled but kicking my feet in the air and lying my back, and giggle _hysterically._ I've been waiting for this moment for _years-!_ I get myself back under control quickly, though, seeing how bewildered Tom and Dumbledore are and knowing how inappropriate my amusement is. I sit up and grin sheepishly at them, telling them; "Sorry."

The flames have vanished, leaving not a mark on our wardrobe, and my grin widens knowing that there's nothing rattling inside of it this time. I made sure of it.

"Where can we get one of those?" Tom dismisses my weird behaviour in favour of the wand in Dumbledore's hand.

Dumbledore looks away from me to address Tom. "You will be able to buy all of your school supplies in Diagon Alley, do not worry. I have your list of books and equipment with me. And I can help you find everything-"

"You're coming with us?" For some reason, Tom seems surprised at this news. I can tell that he's already getting ready to argue, so I cut in (rather hastily, I'll admit):

"Of course he is! Who better to show us the way and teach us more about the magical world than him?" I give Tom a pointed look. "I'm sure we can visit Diagon Alley without him later on, but we should learn and ask what we can while he's still here. Right, sir?" I address the last bit to Dumbledore, who smiles politely.

"Of course," he agrees. "I would be happy to help you two out, and answer any questions you may have."

Tom frowns and bites his thumb in thought, and after a moment he nods to himself and agrees, albeit reluctantly.

"Brilliant!" Dumbledore claps. "But before we depart I must inform the both of you that, at Hogwarts, we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You two have -inadvertently, I am sure -been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you two should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic -yes, there is a Ministry- will punish law breakers still more severely. All new wizards and witches must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws," he warns us gravely.

"We understand, sir."

"Yes," Tom agrees coolly.

"But, Professor, what _are_ the rules of using magic?" I ask all innocent and doe-eyed.

"It is illegal to use magic against muggles -that is, non-magical folk- and will be punished most severely. You mustn't tell _any_ muggles about the Wizarding World. And once you and your brother start Hogwarts you cannot perform _any_ kind of underage magic outside of Hogwarts, unless you are in a life or death situation. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Tom and I say and share a look. We both caught on the _"once you start"_ part, and know that we know what that means. It means that _before_ is fair fucking game.

_'Not to mention that the Ministry can only Trace the magic_ around _an underage person, but not the person themselves. (Which is frankly fucking stupid, why not just put the Trace on their wands? Yet its most convenient for me.) That means that we can still do magic on a known magical-location with over aged wizards and witches nearby.'_ But how do I let Ton know? Because I ain't _not_ using my magic during the summer after doing it for years, I can assure you.

"How can the Ministry know if someone does underage magic? And how old do you have to be in order to no longer be underage?" Tom pesters.

_'Yes, good job, Tommy!'_

"You are underage until you turn seventeen, and until then there is a Trace on all magical children," Dumbledore explains. "Now, I believe that we should head out, before it gets dark?" He rises from the chair and heads for the door, but before leaving he adds, "I will wait for you at the front door."

"We don't have much money," Tom says once we can no longer hear Dumbledore's footsteps. "How are we going to pay for everything? I highly doubt Mrs. Coles will be willing to pay for everything." he bits his thump again, worrying.

My heart goes to him, and I rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, I'm sure that Hogwarts has a trust fund or something."

"How can you be so sure?" he searches my face for answers.

I smile gently. "Well, Dumbledore came this far, didn't he? I overheard him and Mrs. Coles talking earlier about us transferring, and she's more than happy to send us off."

"Really? What did they say?" he asks eagerly, eyes gleaming.

"I'll tell you later. But we really should get ready." And by 'we' I really mean me -all Tom needs to do is put his shoes on. On mutual, silent agreement we pocket our money.

Once I'm all bundled up, we eagerly go downstairs and towards the front lobby. A dazed looking Martha exits just as we enter, but Tom pays her no mind.

"We're ready," Tom announces, then adds "sir" as an afterthought.

Dumbledore eyes my attire with raised brows, and I bristle at the judgement. Like he has any room to talk! Fucking hypocrite.

"It's terribly warm outside..." he comments, as if I don't already know.

"I know," I respond shortly.

"She's heliophobic," Tom supplies flatly.

Dumbledore hums, and we leave the orphanage. "What's that, if you don't mind me asking?" He wonders as we walk.

Tom rolls his eyes at no one in particular. "Heliophobia is the _irrational_ fear of sun and sunlight," he explains dutifully.

"It's not _irrational!"_ I snap and whack him on the arm without thinking.

Tom glowers at me, rubbing where I hit him. "Stop hitting me!" He hisses. "Brute."

"Then stop _lying!"_

"I'm _not_ lying!" He fires back. "You yourself said that you're heliophobic!"

"But it's not _irrational!_ The sun's rays are actually, real fucking deadly! Skin cancer, Tommy, _skin cancer!"_ I return his glare.

"Well, so is heat stroke!"

"Children, please!" Dumbledore cuts in sharply. "That's enough. And Dorothy, you'd do well to remember that such vulgar language will not be tolerated at Hogwarts."

Tom's face twitches with mutiny in being called a "child," but doesn't say anything back.

"Sorry, sir," I lie smoothly.

The rest of the walk is taken in silence. We still attract lots of strange looks and gawkers, though. Well, _Dumbledore_ does, anyways. (People have already normalized me.)

About ten minutes of this Tom finally bursts; "Did our father ever attend Hogwarts? I mean, was he a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle, too, they've told me. Or did you know any Rionach?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Dumbledore answers gently. And was that a smudge of real pity in his eyes?

I choose to keep my thoughts on this matter to myself, for once. I can't remember any Rionach Gaunt from the books, but I don't have any warm feelings towards either sides of our family. Pity, certainly, for Tom Riddle Sr. because he's a rape victim, but nothing otherwise.

"It can't have been our mother," Tom mutters to himself, lost in thought. "Or she wouldn't have died..."

I decide to change the topic, although I'll still be having a talk with Tom on the matter later. "When does Hogwarts start, Professor? And how will we get there?"

"It starts on the first of September, and you will be taking a train there from King's Cross. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes. Tom and I often go around London by ourselves, so we're very familiar with the area," I chime. _'Yet for all the years, I still couldn't find the bloody Leaky Cauldron before now,"_ I grouse to myself. And believe me, I fucking _tried!_

"Excellent. Your tickets and further instructions are in your letters -which reminds me," he says, pausing to take two envelops out of his pocket.

I take mine with greedy hands, reading the pretty writing that says 'Dorothy R. Riddle, the third bedroom to the left, second floor.' I simply can't stop grinning as I read the whole thing, almost exactly the way it was in the books, except that Dumbledore's signature is at the bottom and there's no rule about First Years bringing their own brooms.

_'Interesting,'_ I muse. _'Does this mean that First Years can join the Quidditch team, too?'_

He ends up leading us to Charring Cross Road, and there, wedged between a workshop and a fabric store, is the proud Leaky Cauldron.

I feel utterly stupid. I share a look with Tom, and I know he's feeling the same, because we've passed Charring Cross Road before but never visited the shops here before. _'It was so bloody close!'_ A bell on the front door rings as Dumbledore open it and we enter.

A man with curly brown hair, a big nose, and looking just out of Hogwarts grins behind the counter when he sees Dumbledore. "Ah, Professor! It's great to see you -can I get you anything?" he asks merrily.

"No, not today I'm afraid," Dumbledore chuckles pleasantly. "I'm helping the Riddle twins with their school shopping. Tom, Dorothy, this is Tom, the son of the landlady. Tom, this is Tom and Dorothy," he gestures between the three of us, eyes twinkling with amusement.

I see my Tom swallow his disgust as he offers a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," he says with a fake smile.

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. You'd think that the worse offense is to share a name, with him.

"Right back at you, fellow Tom," he winks. "And you as well, little lady. Are you two muggleborns, then, I suppose? I bet you were excited to find out that you're magical."

"Nah, we always knew we were magical," I tell him. "Just didn't know if there were others like us."

"What are muggleborns?" my Tom asks.

"Muggleborns are people who are magical, but do not have magical parents," Dumbledore explains.

"So then there is a chance that neither of our parents were magical," Tom concludes with clenched hands, looking stonily away.

"Yes."

"Well, _I_ don't care if they were magical or not -I just want to start _my own_ magical shopping already," I declare loudly. Like, seriously, lets cut the idle chatting short and get a fucking move on! I want to see Diagon Alley, and I ain't goanna wait another day to do so!

That earns me a chuckle from the older Tom.

"Quite right," comments Dumbledore. "Well, Tom, we'll be off. Please say hello to your mum for me, and have a good day," he farewells with a nod before turning and walking towards the back.

Older Tom just waves him off. "To you as well, Professor! And it was nice meeting you, kids."

"This is a dead end," Tom accuses Dumbledore, once we're in the back.

Dumbledore only smiles and turns to the brick wall. Taking out his wand, he taps the wall and the bricks shift, revealing the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley.

I grin in a shite-eating manner as Tom gapes and takes a step back, closer to me.

"Welcome, Riddle twins, to Diagon Alley," Dumbledore spreads his hands and says theatrically.

_"Hell fucking yes,"_ I whisper, greedy eyes gleaming. Tom and I stare at each other with matching expressions.

_'Can you believe this?'_ He asks me with obvious awe and wonder.

_'Can_ you?' I counter.

_'Yes!'_ We both answer each other.

"Can we get our wands first?" I ask Dumbledore, practically vibrating with barely restrained excitement.

"We can get them after getting your books, supplies, and your uniform," Dumbledore denies as he starts walking.

I scowl at his back as Tom and I follow at his heels, hand in hand because of the rather pushy crowd. So basically, we can get the wands _last._ Tosser.

"Dorothy and I don't have much money," Tom informs him warily. "Sir."

I know that the only reason why he's telling Dumbledore _now_ is because we now know the gateway to the magical world. Just in case.

"Not to worry. Hogwarts has a trust fund for children like you and your sister," Dumbledore dismisses his worry. "Although I'm afraid the purchases will have to be second-hand."

"Sir, can Tom and I make a bank account while we're here? It's not a lot -but..."

Dumbledore eyes us carefully. "And how did you a acquire this?"

With pursed lips I ignore his rude accusation with mild annoyance, as Tom glares at him.

"We didn't steal it," Tom retorts icily. "Dorothy and I work at the local Library -have been since we were eight. You can ask Ms. Baker, she'll tell you."

_'Yeah, thanks to me.'_

"Ah. Well I'm afraid that you have to be of age in order to create an account. However, we can make a quick stop at Gringotts nonetheless for you to exchange your muggle to wizards' currency."

Damn. Though it's not surprising, it is disappointing that we can't get our own vault yet.

Tom perks up at the mention of "wizards' currency." "'Wizards' currency'?" He repeats. "How does that differ from, ah, muggle money? Sir."

As Dumbledore explains knuts, sickles, and gallons, and how pounds compare to them, I feel like I'm still not going to understand it completely until I do it in practice. Which is part of the reason why I want Dumbledore with us. I don't want to be scrammed by a greedy cashier/worker, thank you very much! (I can't afford it.)

I re-read my acceptance letter, and ask; "Professor, it says here that we're allowed either a cat, owl, rat, or toad. Can Tom and I get one?" Even if we have to share, I want a bloody owl.

"Pets at Hogwarts are a privilege, but not necessary for your education." He doesn't bother looking back as he talks. "Do you think that the two of you can afford a pet, and keep paying for its' needs, with your job at the Library?"

So that's a no, then. I humph. I'm sure if Tom and I pooled our pay checks we could, a small one at least, but now that we'll only be working in the summer? No, our resources would plummet much too quickly with a pet. (Although, now that I'm thinking about money and jobs, I suddenly get a wicked idea and a private grin to match.) Tom's eyes light up with realization, probably recalling the "we await your owl" line in the acceptance letters.

Indeed, Tom opens his mouth and comments; "I assume, then, that wizards send each other letters through owls?"

"That is correct," Dumbledore answers. "But there are school owls for those that don't have their own, however it will cost you a knut every time you wish to use one."

"Are we allowed to bring pets that _aren't_ on the list?" I continue.

Tom meets my eye, and I know we're both thinking the same thing. _'Snakes.'_ Bringing a snake -or snakes- would be ideal for us, really, because a snake we can trust to hunt for itself, always return, and follow commands.

"In special circumstances, a student may bring a different pet so long as their Head of House and Headmaster allows it," he replies cautiously. "Do you two already have one?"

"Not really," Tom says. And despite his light tone and casual posture his eyes are sharp as he watches Dumbledore's reaction closely. "But Dorothy and I can talk to snakes -is that common for wizards and witches?"

Dumbledore abruptly stops, forcing us to stop, and people behind us grumble and try to manoeuvres around. I squint, and yes, the man is looking a bit pale now as he looks down at us with new eyes.

"No, it's not," he responds softly.

I almost don't hear his words, they're so quiet, but I do and share a look with Tom. He's pleased, I can tell, but also very curious concerning Dumbledore's strange reaction.

_'What do you think that's about?'_ He quirks a brow at me, behind Dumbledore's back once he resumed walking.

I just pretend ignorance and shrug.

There's no more conversation until we enter Gringotts. Beside me, Tom is very impressed with the large, dark, and imitating building once we get there, but gawks when he spots the goblins at the front door. I can't help but stare as well, manners be damned.

They're very short, stubby, and thick. Like, they only reaching my puny 4'8" self at my shoulder, and to be perfectly honest, they're also fucking _ugly._ I'm not trying to be racist, or think that they're worth less than a human because of their appearance, or anything but...Facts are facts. And the fact is that I have not seen any being, human or otherwise, as ugly as them.

One of them sneers at Tom and I as we pass, and if I grip Tom tighter and inch closer to Dumbledore...Well, that isn't anyone's damn business but my own.

Dumbledore walks right up to an empty high desk where a goblin is stamping some paper work.

_'Or is it technically parchment work?'_

"Good evening, Gorsperk," Dumbledore greets him pleasantly.

The goblin, Gorsperk, looks up from his work with not quite a sneer but a begrudging expression as he growls; "Yes?"

"The Riddle twins would like to exchange muggle money for wizards'," Dumbledore explains promptly.

Gorsperk's eyes cut down to us, and with narrowed, judging eyes he looks us up and down. He doesn't seem impressed with what he sees. "And how much will Mr. and Miss Riddle be exchanging?" he drawls, clearly already bored with us.

"One pound, please," I chime, glancing at Tom for confirmation. He nods. One pound today would be a hundred and fourteen US dollars back in 2019, which may not seem like much, but fills me with pride. Tom and I are not big spenders, preferring to save and hoard our collective money, only spending money when it's our birthdays or a little treat for ourselves here and there. Like cheap candy.

Gorsperk leans over the high desk with his outreached hand, and Tom and I promptly cough up the goods (though Tom does so a bit more reluctantly). He counts all of the fistfuls of coins, before hopping down and leaving us with a curt and grumpy "wait here."

And so we wait, and a few minutes later he returns with a small brown pouch with strings. "Forty three sickles and thirty knuts," he says as Tom takes the pouch and takes a peek inside.

"Thank you, good sir," I tell Gorsperk sincerely with a grin, nudging Tom pointedly when he doesn't say anything.

"Yes, thank you," he parrots, taking a sickle and examining it between his fingers with wonder.

Gorsperk blinks and his grumpy expression falters at he stares at me as if grew another head.

I arch a brow. Did I do something weird?

"That will be all, thank you, Gorsperk," Dumbledore dismisses politely before leaving.

Tom and I follow closely, but I glance over my shoulder as we're about to exit, still leaving Gorsperk's heavy gaze on me. As soon as we're out of hearing range of the goblins standing stationary at the front, Tom demands:

"What kind of creatures _are_ they?"

"They are goblins, and they run the only British Wizarding Bank, so I would warn you to always be respectful when dealing with them. Many foolish wizards find themselves...In unfavourable situation otherwise," Dumbledore says seriously, no longer smiling.

Tom and I share a look.

"What other creatures are there?" He prowls on. "What about vampires and werewolves? Do they exist too? And fairies, tolls, and unicorns?"

"Yes. I do believe that you shall learn about Dark creatures in your Defence Against the Dark Arts, and other beings in the Care of Magical Creatures elective."

"Electives? What other electives is there, sir?" I pip in. _'How do classes differ compared to Harry's time?'_

Dumbledore goes on to explain all of the electives, which he explains that we can only pick three in third year, and both of us listen with rapid attention, except- "All young witches must take the mandatory Household Charms elective as well as regular Charms class until sixth year, so Dorothy you will only be allowed to pick two other electives."

_"What?"_ I demand loudly, aghast.

He gives me scolding look for my tone, but repeats; "Young witches are expected to take Household Charms, Third Year until Sixth Year, and so you and your fellow female classmates may only pick two other electives."

"That's bullshite!" I can't help but declare. Totally unfair! _Mandatory elective?_ That's not an elective at all -it's utter bullshite, that's what! Sexism at its finest!

"Miss Riddle," Dumbledore reminds me sharply. "Please watch your language."

I fume, as Tom mutters with a slight, gloating smirk my way:

"Mrs. Coles will be pleased to hear it."

I whack his arm and snarl; "Fuck the old bat," quietly, for Tom's ears only. _'And fuck whomever made it mandatory as well!'_ This shite didn't happen in the books, and I doubt it happened in the parents' time either, though it is possible, so I must simply be in the _lucky_ generation.

_'Well, all those that expect me to be a_ good _little girl and ignore this insult, especially the teacher, are going to be severely disappointed!'_

"Professor, earlier you had mentioned Head of Houses. What do you mean by that, exactly?" Tom ignores my fuming and me.

"Ah," he smiles. "There are four Houses in Hogwarts that each student is sorted into; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff. Gryffindor is for the brave and chivalrous, Ravenclaw for those that are wise and creative, Slytherin for the ambitious and cunning, and Hufflepuff are for those that are just, hardworking, and loyal." He then adds; "At the end of the year the House with the most House Points receives the House Cup, which you can either earn by doing good or lose by doing poorly in school."

"How are we sorted?"

"That, Tom, is something you will have to discover for yourselves."

Tom glowers at Dumbledore's back.

A sly grin stretches my lips as an idea comes to mind. "Hey, maybe we need to pull a rabbit out a hat," I snicker and nudge Tom.

Tom's lips quirk with mild amusement, but what's really amusing is way Dumbledore's whole body twitches.

"Sir, what House are you in?" I ask just because.

"I was a Gryffindor back when I was a student, and am now the Head of Gryffindor House," he supplies. "What House do you two believe you'll sorted into?"

"Slytherin," we both respond without hesitation.

"So sure?" he quirks a brow.

Tom simply shrugs and looks away, but I clarify:

"Tommy here says that he's gong to be Minister whenever teachers ask" -and it's a damn good choice when the other is to be an insane, nose-less terrorist- "And he has this uncanny ability to swipe the favourite foods off of my plate without me noticing..."

Tom's lips twitch as he tries to smother a smirk. "Oh, but Dorothy, we can't forget about the time when you made our classmate fail a test by writing all of the wrong answers when you noticed him looking at your paper, and then changing all of them as soon as he turned his in," he counters pleasantly.

I snort. I have absolutely _no_ regrets about that. "Prat deserved it."

The conversation soon derails from Houses and Karma, and onto our shopping list. The first shop we stop by is for the potion ingredients, which is obviously _not_ second-hand, but the cauldrons and dragon hide gloves are. Then it's generic supplies, such as quills, ink, parchment, and such.

I eye the quills and ink, imagining the hassle of having to constantly reapply ink on my quill, never being able to erase mistakes, having to wait for the damn thing to dry once it's all said and done, and _nope!_ right out.

"I'll give you my share of quills, ink, and parchment if you give me all of your pencils, erasers, and paper," I tell Tom while Dumbledore is browsing elsewhere.

"Deal," he accepts immediately.

We shake on it.

Our third stop is the wizarding version of _Value Village._ Unlike in _The Sorcerer Stone_ Tom and I don't get fitted, but select already-made uniforms from the racks in our sizes. I eye the black, knee-length pleated skirts with certain disdain. I mean, society woman are out wearing trousers more often now, so it's not exactly a _scandal,_ put Wool's Orphanage is very old fashioned and 'traditional.'

I can admit to myself that a good portion of my dislike of skirts and dresses comes from being petty alone. But seriously, even in my first life I would almost always wear trousers over skirts and dresses. (A snot-nosed little shite had a horrid habit of trying to show everyone my knickers throughout first grade. I wish I had done more than cry and run away in shame back then.)

Tom smirks at me, holding his three pairs of boys' uniform in his arms.

"Shut up, prat," I scowl at him.

"But I didn't say anything?" he tries to widen his eyes all 'innocent' like, which we both know is complete bull.

"You didn't need to," I sneer back. "And you better watch yourself, Tommy dear, or else one day _you'll_ be the one wearing skirts and dresses."

"And how do you plan on accomplishing _that?"_ He challenges with a scoff.

_"Magic."_

It's his turn to scowl at me, before dismissing me with an upturned nose and stalking over to the front desk.

I roll my eyes at his attitude. Still. _'I'm_ so _going to learn how to transfigure clothes.'_ Whether that particular skill will be limited to my own clothes is yet to be seen. Dumbledore is waiting at the desk with a worker for us, and so pays once we hand over our things.

We also get trunks -oh, how I hunger for the ones that are also portable bedrooms- and I mourn all of other knickknacks that I can't yet afford.

It's fucking cruel, I tell you, a cruel torment!

I mean, sure, I have some money _now,_ but I know that if I want my own broom, which are _very_ expensive, I'll need to save up for a few years first. And I _really_ want my own broomstick.

That being said, I clutch the red handbag bewitched with the extension charm close.

Hey, it's _practical,_ okay?

"What do you have?" Tom asks me, looking at my handbag curiously.

"It's supposed to be bottomless and make the load lighter," I grin, showing it and the tag off.

His brows rise to his hairline, impressed.

"What's that?" I return, gesturing to the thing in his hands.

It's a book, he shows me, but I recoil when I see the price tag. "There's _no way_ you can afford that -and you're not taking _my_ share to pay for it!" I exclaim.

"Quiet," he hisses, glancing around shifty-like. "And I _know."_

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "Are you planning on _stealing_ it?"

He smirks.

_"Tom!_ Tom, no, you can't!"

"And why not?" He challenges. "If you buy the bag then we can slip it in when no one's looking -and, plus, I know you want the Animagus series," he adds sweetly. "No one will know. Trust me."

Damn, he knows the right words to say, doesn't he? I noticed the Animagus textbooks by the other old, worn books, and immediately wanted it (even more than a broomstick) but they're _extremely_ pricey, even second-hand as they are which isn't surprising but still very disappointing.

(Nora would snicker and call me a furry, but I dare anyone that isn't a lazy arse or dumb tosser to pass up the fucking chance to become an actual _shape shifter.)_

But I'm also clever enough to know that I can swipe Mrs. Coles's camera that she keeps in her room, take a shite load of pictures of the texts, print out said pictures and return the camera without the old bat, nor the shopkeeper, none the wiser. Even if I have to hide out in the store's loo to do it.

_"No,"_ I repeat firmly. "There is a right time and a wrong time to steal, Tom, and this is definitely the latter."

"It's just one book, Dorothy-" he tries to argue, but I cut him off:

"A _thirty five sickles_ book," I remind him. "And if it's 'just one book' then you shouldn't have any trouble putting it _back_."

Tom set's his jaw with this stubborn look on his face, and I know I'm losing him to his greed.

"And besides, who's to say that there aren't any magical thief-detector things in the store? Do you _seriously_ want to lose the chance to go a bloody _magical school_ for 'just one book'?" I press, giving him a knowing look even as I hold my breath.

The threat of losing his place at Hogwarts and being stuck at Wool's, more than anything, convinces him to listen.

"...Fine," he begrudgingly concedes.

"Good boy," I smile and pat his head mockingly.

He swats my hand away and sulkily goes to return the book to it's proper place.

After I pay for my handy handbag and Dumbledore buys our textbooks we _finally_ make our way to _Ollivander's._ I skip the whole way there, barely able to restrain the excitement bubbling inside of me.

Like Tom the Bartender, Ollivander himself is a youthful looking fellow. He smiles brilliantly when he sees Dumbledore.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore, how good it is to see you! First Year muggleborns, I take it?" he assumes and smiles down at Tom and I.

"We don't know if we are or not," Tom replies coolly.

It takes a moment, but when it clicks Ollivander flushes and stumbles. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, that was rather thoughtless of me-"

"It's quite alright," Dumbledore says, trying to reassure the man and quickly move on. "This is Tom and Dorothy Riddle, and they are indeed here for their first wands. They are very excited," he adds pleasantly.

Ollivander clears his throat and avoids direct eye contact with Tom and I. "I imagine that they are, yes. What is your wand arm?" he questions the both of us.

"We're right handed," Tom answers simultaneously as I say:

"I'm ambidextrous."

"Really?" he lifts his brows at me, mildly curious and impressed. "Well, which hand to you usually prefer then?"

"Left." _'Because fuck you, Mr. Wadsworth.'_

Ollivander nods his head before disappearing in the back, returning shortly after with a measuring tape. "Alright, who's first?" he asks.

Tom tries to step forward first but I hip-check him out of the way and declare; "Ladies first!" After all, I know for a fact that Tom is going to take for-fucking- _ever_ with his own wand.

_"I_ don't see any ladies," he glowers half-heartily at the back of my head and snarks quietly under his breath, but still loud enough for us to hear.

I dutifully ignore the jealous prat.

Ollivander measures my arm, palm, and thumb, nodding to himself all the while. "Just a moment," he tells me before disappearing into the back again. He comes back carrying four long, rectangular boxes. The first one he passes is a dark wood one, with gray padding for the handle. "Just give it a flick," he instructs, and I do.

Tom and I flinch away from the lamp next to us when it breaks. Tom stares at me, alarmed and mouth ajar. Ollivander is unmoved, however, and simply snatches the wand from me and replaces it with another.

This goes on for another twenty-something times, and Tom is gradually growing more and more impatient while Ollivander seems utterly thrilled with every failed attempt.

"You're a tricky one, m'dear, but don't worry! I have a wand for every wizard -er, witch!" With sparkling eyes, he continues to himself in a murmur; "I wonder...Yes, yes..." and leaves.

"Does it always take this long?" Tom asks -demands- from Dumbledore.

"There are those that quickly find their wands, and others that take longer. But Mr. Ollivander is correct that there is wand for everyone," Dumbledore says as a way of answering.

Tom humphs and crosses his arms, shooting me a look clearly telling me to hurry the hell up already.

Ollivander returns with two other boxes, and I can't help but notice how much more carefully he handles these compared to the others, though he wasn't exactly careless with said others either. He uncovers one box, revealing a long white wand with a braided/carved design up its length but with a thick, slightly hour glassed shaped and smooth handle.

"Yew, dragon heartstring, quite bendy, fourteen and a quarter long," he informs me.

Feeling butterflies in my stomach and my mouth drying in strange suspense, I wrap my small hand around the hilt and give it an experiential flick. Gold sparks fly out of the tip as a warm feeling washes over me, filling me with a sense of accomplishment and _completeness._

"Wow," I breathe in awe, staring at _my wand._

"Yew, you said?" Dumbledore studies my wand and I with an unreadable expression.

"Yes!" Ollivander beams -and I suddenly get a pang of guilt as I recall that Harry and Tom were supposed to have brother wands or something, my eyes snapping to other box- "Extremely rare, this type of wood wand is. We only have two of them-" he puts a hand on top of the other box "-And their chosen owners are likewise unusual-"

Tom snorts from behind me before he can stop himself, and I promptly stick my tongue out at him.

"Reputed to endow its possessor with the power of life and death," Ollivander continues, ignoring Tom and I childish ways as he gushes, "And retains a particular fearsome reputation with duelling and curses. On the other hand, the wand might be equally suited as a fierce protector for others. It's very curious, especially paired with a dragon heartstring core, which generally produce wands with the most power, and have a strong liking to most flamboyant spells. You ought to be careful, though, because it's also the most temperamental-"

_'And irony strikes again,'_ I muse during the 'power of life and death' portion.

"Garrick, you aren't telling our customers _all of_ our trade secrets, are you?" a deep voice teases, and a tall and bulky man with a brown goatee appears from the back.

Ollivander flushes and stammers; "No, well, I-"

"Relax," the man chuckles and claps down on Ollivander's scrawny shoulder good-naturally. "There's no real harm in telling folks about their own wands." He looks at Dumbledore and grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Albus, it's been some time! Escorting the Firsties, are ya?"

"Indeed," he dips his head. "Edmund, this is Tom and Dorothy Riddle. Children, this is my good friend Edmund Ollivander, the owner of this fine wand shop."

"Are you two twins?" Mr. Ollivander assumes.

"Fraternal," Tom supplies politely.

"What does my wand length mean?" I can't help but ask. "What's the difference between a short and long one?"

Mr. Ollivander chuckles again, amused with my eagerness. "Some wand shops might base the wand length on how short or tall the wizard is, and while that _may_ affect it -tall folks often possess long wands- that's not always the case. Tall folks can still have shorter wands, and short folks can have longer wands. To base it solely one's height a load of dragon dung," he huffs and roll his eyes at no one in particular. "Longer wands can also reflect someone with a big personality, and similarly a short one can mean that the wizard is lacking a quality in their persons."

I grin at that news and look down my wand, tracing it with my fingers. It seems like this wand fits me to a 'T.'

"Have you got your wand, young man?" Mr. Ollivander questions Tom.

He shakes his head negative. "No, sir. I was waiting for Dorothy to find her's first."

"Well, lets get you measured then, shall we?" Mr. Ollivander from there on takes over, and his son(?) is stuck observing from the side lines with Dumbledore and I.

After having his arm and hand measured, Tom inquires; "Do siblings usually have similar wands?"

"Often there are some similarities within families, yes, but it's no more than the similarities you may share by being brought up the same way," the younger Ollivander pipes up.

"Can I try the other yew wand?" Tom wonders with wide, false innocent eyes.

"Sure," Mr. Ollivander opens the other box and passed it over. "Just give it a quick flick."

The wand is just as white as mine, but upon closer inspection I notice that it isn't super straight like mine, looking more like a sturdy, natural stick in comparison, and the carving indents are like a screw and are on the hooked handle instead.

But just like mine, gold sparks fly.

"Brilliant!" Mr. Ollivander claps the same time his son exclaims:

"Amazing! The only two yew wands, sold-!"

"Thirteen and a half inches long. That one has a Phoenix feather core, and has a brother of that very same bird somewhere in this store," Mr. Ollivander details.

_'Oh.'_ The guilt that had been festering in my chest disappears at that bit of information. _'I didn't steal Harry's wand.'_ That a relief, honestly, I'd hate to do that, even if he isn't born yet.

"Are Dorothy and my wands brothers as well?"

"No," Mr. Ollivander shakes his head. "They would be if the wood was cut from the same tree. As it is, you have different cores as well."

"What does it mean for wands to be brothers?" Tom continues to fish.

Ollivander opens his mouth to explain, but his Dad gives him a look to silence him before grabbing a book off the table rack on the desk, sliding it towards Tom.

"If you want to know more, you got to buy the book," he winks.

_The Basics of Wandlore_ it says, a picture of two wands crossed like an 'X' on the front.

"It explains all about the different types of wand wood, cores, and their histories. It also explains sibling wands," Mr. Ollivander taps it.

Tom examines it curiously in his hands, with me looking over his shoulder, but he hesitates when he sees the price on the back. "Sorry, sir, but I'll have to pass," he says and slides it back.

Mr. Ollivander shrugs and puts it away. "No big deal. But I'll be needing thirty sickles and five knuts for the wands."

Dumbledore, who has stayed mostly silent until then, step forwards to pay. There's a bit more small talk between the adults and promises to drop by more often, but when we eventually _do_ head out, just as Tom and I pass the doorway, Mr. Ollivander says with a friendly smile and another wink:

"We'll be expecting great things from the both of you, with wands like yours."

I say nothing as we leave, gut twisting uncomfortably at the eerie words.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think of this letter? Did pull any heartstrings, and if so, what and why?

**2.** What do you think about the trip?

**3.** What are your opinions on my Dumbledore?

**4.** Can you think of any situations, characters, or scenes that you want to see at Hogwarts?

**5.** What was your favourite part?

**6.** What was your least favourite part?

**7.** Did you see any mistakes?

**8.** Do you have any questions?


	5. Summer Activities

"Hello" -Normal speech.

 **"Hello"** -Parseltongue.

 _'Hello'_ -Thoughts/Telepathic twin-speech.

* * *

_Dear Little Brother,_

_I can remember how nervous my little sister Nora was when she first started grade three._

_I never could understand it before. I mean, sure, we just moved to a new place and none of us knew anyone there, and yes we were transferring three months already in the school year, but is it such a big deal?_

_True, it fucking sucked to leave all of our friends behind. But there's thing called FaceTime, and we'll be making new friends so I couldn't understand why Nora started crying._

_Even as a toddler Nora didn't take well to strangers, hiding behind either mine or our parents legs when meeting someone new. She wouldn't meet their eyes if they were a teenager or older, and mumbled unintelligible if forced to speak in their presence._

_She was a very lively and cheerful person when you got to know her, often chatting your ear off nonstop, but terribly shy before then. She got a bit better as she got older, but being in a room full of strangers still made her uncomfortable and she would_ never _volunteer to do a public speech._

 _Anyways, I can still see little Nora the morning of our first day. She kept playing with her honey blonde hair, a nervous habit of hers, and for a time I thought she would actually chew_ through _her bottom lip._ _Great reluctance came off her while made our way to the bus station, and I had to grab her arm to haul her arse myself because she dragged her feet so much. The prat even tried to 'accidentally' miss her stop at the elementary school, but because the bus dropped high scholars off last I was able 'remind' her._

_Jacob, who is two years older than Nora, was sick that morning and so he stayed home, which just made Nora bitter towards our live-in nanny, Grace. Nora tried to convince Grace that she was sick too, describing how her stomach flip-flopped and how positively nauseous she felt. Except she made the mistake of admitting that she had butterflies at the thought of being the "new girl," and so without an evident fever, clogged nose, nor the fact unlike Jacob she hadn't puked so far, Grace refused to call Nora in sick._

_Grace told Nora that even if she misses school today, tomorrow she'd still be the new student. That she should get it over and done with_ now, _and not later._

_Personally, as Olivia, I never once experienced "butterflies" because I was new. Oh, sure, I've had my nervous and nail-biting moments, like trying to make a good impression for interviews and being the new employee during my first (and only) official job (because babysitting and walking dogs doesn't count), or the one time that I entered in a debate competition with other schools. But for being the "new girl" at school, or just entering a new school and meeting new people in general? No._

_I guess I was simply blessed as an overall confident kid, often finding myself the leader in most friend groups. I noticed early on that I made new friends fairly easily (I loved to socialize with others back then, a complete extrovert -and a stark difference compared to how I am now) and more often than not, my friends would ask me for my opinion on something or let me decide what we were going to do._

_Or maybe I just surrounded myself with less decisive people than me, and so they were all happy to let me take the reins. It's probably both, because simple confidence_ can _carry you far, even if you don't have much to back it up. (Looking at you, Rebecca fucking Cornwall. Bitch almost got me arrested when we were thirteen -but that's a story for another time.)_

 _Now, though? As Dorothy? Oh, I'm definitely feeling those butterflies, fluttering about inside of me and crawling up my throat, threatening to choke me. And while I'm not fucking_ reluctant _to attend Hogwarts and meet other magical folks, plenty of them canon characters (no way, no how)...Well, I apologize in advance if I vomit on you._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**August 30th, 1938.**

The following month is both the longest and shortest month of our lives. Though it is definitely the _busiest._

The day after shopping with Dumbledore we had asked Tom the Bartender if he'd be willing to hire us, pretty please, and we're hard workers, honest!

"I don't know," he had said wary-like. "This _is_ a pub, and I don't feel comfortable with a couple of kids around alcohol."

"But, sir, isn't this also an Inn? Dorothy and I don't have to serve behind the counter, we know how to clean and do laundry. We do it all the time at the Orphanage, sir, and I'm sure cleaning the dishes yourselves can get tiring?" Tom explored with wide, innocent eyes.

"Yes, and we can also help with the customers and even run errands in Diagon Alley if need be," I had added eagerly. "Currently, we work in a muggle library and so we have lots of experience with customer service, multitasking, time management, organizing, and cleaning, on top of what we do at Wool's. We've worked there since we were eight, but of course if you'll hire us here we'll tell Ms. Baker that we're leaving."

He still didn't look sold, saying that most of the cleaning was done magically, and that most supplies were owled to the pub. "However, I suppose I'll ask my Mum about your offers," he had responded. He then instructed us to come back early next morning.

His mum, the current landlady and owner of the Leaky Cauldron, is a very friendly and plumped woman named Mrs. Chapman Annabelle. The same but longer brown curly hair as her son, with grey strands peeking through her braid and deep laugh lines on her face. One look at us and after hearing Tom's mini sob story about our orphan status, how we really want to earn wizards' money, learn more about the magical world, and how hard of workers and utterly responsible we are, Mrs. Chapman positively _melted._ She agreed to give us a week to see how well we do, and after we busted our arses for a week, she had agreed to hire us on with a large, warm smile, and even a hug that we silently suffered through.

Mrs. Chapman is quite clearly a very mothering person, which we absolutely sized upon. While our young age might be a disadvantage elsewhere or discourage adults to hire us, that's not the case with Mrs. Chapman. At first she was worried how long she was making us work, offering to cut back on hours and wanting to meet with Mrs. Coles, but we convinced her that it's absolutely no problem and that Mrs. Coles didn't want us at the Orphanage anyways.

Once we confessed to how the muggles at Wool's call us as freaks (not mentioning further than that, though), I feared Mrs. Chapman might march over there regardless just to give Mrs. Coles a stern talking to and that we had gone too far, but thankfully she only huffed and puffed and offered us to stay with her and her son for dinner. Obviously, we did and so now we only back to Wool's to sleep, study, and eat breakfast.

Ms. Baker was quite shocked and sad to see Tom and I go, even offering to give us a tiny raise if that's the problem, but we declined and simply promised to visit.

And so with our new jobs at The Leaky Cauldron, we spend hours each day sweeping, wiping, washing, changing bed sheets, gathering laundry, and much to Tom's utter disgust, cleaning bathrooms and toilets.

(Just remembering how he blanched and recoiled, later holding a plunger with the tips of his gloved hands and far away from himself as possible, glaring at the filthy toilet with utter disdain and contempt just sends me _howling._ I'm positive that he would have walked away right then and there, not once looking back, if this job didn't give us such easy access to Diagon Alley and other magical folk daily. The prat even tried to get me to clean all of the toilets _alone_ , but like hell that was happening! Him doing the laundry and I bathrooms being a 'fair deal' my _arse._ No, if _I_ have to _literally_ deal with shite then so does _he!_ )

And when we're not working, we're either exploring Diagon Alley or doing our independent studies. Tom has become absolutely _obsessed_ with learning all of the material for the year even before we step foot on Hogwarts grounds, and, well, I'm honestly just as guilty. We don't dare try performing any of the spells in the textbooks with our newly bought wands; I haven't been able to weasel out any information or confirmation exactly _how_ the Ministry keeps track of underage magic, and so I can't tell Tom that we can do all of the magic we desire on any documented and _magical_ property, so as long as no adult catches us and snitches. However Tom the Bartender _did_ let slip that doing (purposeful) wandless magic is rare, and depending on the spell's difficulties, a sign of magical powers.

My Tom, of course, took this to heart of how truly _great_ and _gifted_ we both are, but remained tight-lipped about our abilities. Prat had spent a good time bragging to me in private about ourselves, though I'm a filthy hypocrite because I definitely believe - _know_ \- that we are above average compared to the other kids as well.

Anywise, via Tom the Bartender _my_ Tom was able to conclude that the Ministry can sense jack shite when it's _wandless_ , because when we tentatively did it again both at the Leaky Cauldron and Wool's, no authority came pounding.

(Though, at the same time, Tom and I agree that there's still the possibility that we haven't gotten in trouble because the school year hasn't technically started yet, like Dumbledore said, and have therefore decided to revisit the topic again during the summer.)

And so while our wands grow cold (but never far from our persons), in our room at Wool's we still continue to do magic. There are obviously a few charms that we've already mastered and nonverbal at that, like Lumos/Nox, Wingardium Leviosa, and then the mini fire and summoning one which are evidently _not_ first year spells, but during the summer we've learned the tripping jinx, Alohomora, Tergo and Scougrify (both cleaning charms.) Although we can't do them non-verbally, and it takes concentration to perform them successfully, it's just a matter of time and practice until we have them fully mastered.

The mending, and severing charms are harder, and the measure of success really depend on the object. Though Tom has had more luck with the severing charm than I have.

The only one we haven't had any luck with, frustratingly, are the bloody transfiguration spells and Body-Binding curse. After a week of constant failure we accepted that we'd just have to wait until classes start.

As for Potions, History of Magic, and Herbology all we can do is read and memorize, and so each night we take turns quizzing each other on the different subjects. (Never before have I enjoyed studying so goddamn much. Yes, we're a couple of Hermiones, aren't we? Personally, I usually enjoy reading fictional books over nonfiction, but, well, it's fucking _magic._ Enough said.)

On another note, Tom is determined to have flawless handwriting by the time we leave. He uses my share of ink and parchment that I had traded with him to practice, since using those and a pencil and paper feels different, and therefore "ruins" his work.

Pssh. Whatever.

While he does that, _I'm_ studying how to become an animal. I did indeed snap a fuck ton of pictures of the Animagus textbooks in the privacy of the loo, and then glued them on paper and _then_ stapled the pages together as a makeshift book after printing it all. Mrs. Coles couldn't find her camera for a couple of days, but then found it again on her dresser where she left it.

The idea of shape shifting intrigues Tom, but he says that he's going to wait until he can get the _actual_ textbooks to study it for himself.

"What do you think I am?" I had asked him.

"I'm sure you would make an _excellent_ cow," he had quipped slyly. Then laughed himself out of the room while dodging the hard textbooks that I had thrown in retaliation.

"Better a cow than a fat fucking pig, which you would be!" I had retorted loudly after the git. Not one of my finer comebacks, I admit.

Later that night he told me that he thinks I might be either a donkey, badger, or fox. He can't choose between those three, but personally I hope to be a wolf. How fucking wicked would that be? But I wouldn't mind being a fox either, or maybe an eagle.

Either way, I have _years_ of studying to do before I get close to finding out my animal.

* * *

**August 31st, 1938.**

"Dorothy honey, could you take this up to room twenty-three?" Mrs. Chapman asks, holding a tray of food in her hands.

"Of course, ma'am," I respond and take the food tray from her.

I head up the creaky stairs and look for room twenty-three, and once found I knock and announce; "Room service!"

"Come in!" A tired voice inside replies.

I open the door and step inside, seeing a hunched over woman at the desk, writing.

"Just leave it over there," the woman orders, waving at her nightstand.

I get the feeling that either Tom and I are going to find the food uneaten in the morning, or she's going to be eating cold soup later on, but I do as told and leave after asking if that's all. It is. As I'm heading towards the stairs, I bump into Tom with a pile of laundry so high that he needs to walk sideways in order to see where he's going.

"Need some help?" I snort.

"Yes," Tom freely admits, and I take an armful from the top.

"Why didn't you just take more than one trip?" I ask.

He looks at me with a mulish expression. "You always do it," he remarks. "And I would have been fine, anyways."

I simply shrug, because it's true that I'm a one-trip person and I don't want to argue. "Do you want to go to _Flourish and Blotts_ again after school?" Unfortunately, Diagon Alley doesn't have a Library, or if it does, we haven't found it, and so we simply read books that interest us in the bookstore but don't buy or take any of them out. Luckily, it seems like none of the workers care that a couple of kids spend hours a day there without ever paying.

"Alright," he agrees easily, never one to turn down knowledge.

For the next two hours we continue to work; helping serve customers, cleaning rooms and sweeping floors. Until, finally, it's four o' clock and we're done for the day.

I go in the back, to a closet that Mrs. Chapman has allowed me to store my extra layers in, to bundle up while Tom goes to the bar to inform the other Tom that we're off the clock and to not expect us back until suppertime.

I meet up with my Tom and he taps the brick wall, revealing Diagon Alley. My brows fly up to my hairline in mild surprise at the sight.

"Last minute shopping," Tom observes, expression grim.

"No shite." In the past few days it's been gradually getting busier and busier, but sheesh! I'm having a hard time finding any openings!

"Excuse me," a voice behind us says briskly, and before I can even turn around to look a grandmother and a couple of older teenagers are pushing past Tom and I.

We frown, but wave the manner away a second later.

"Well, shall we brave the streets, my knight?" I arch a brow, offering my hand.

He rolls his eyes at my dramatics but clasps my hand in his nonetheless, and we solider on.

A few minutes later of being squashed and blinded by mountains and never ending bigger bodies, and acquiring a _lovely_ elbow to the face, I am deeply regretting my decision.

_'Have we already passed Flourish and Blotts? Are we even on the right bloody path?'_

Tom hisses in pain when someone accidentally steps on his tiny toes, inching impossibly closer to me, and in the next second someone is yelling:

"Excuse me! Excuse me! Everybody move out of the way! Large cart here!"

I can't see shite, being so damn short, but I can still tell that the bustling crowd is trying to part. The adults on our left push us further to the right, and for a split second I swear my hear jumps into my throat when my foot misses a step, and I end up stumbling into a much less crowded alleyway. Since I'm still holding Tom's hand tightly he follows after me.

"Dorothy-!" He starts, caught off guard. He pauses and looks about the new section of Diagon Alley that we've never seen before.

I do the same, and my stomach churns in disgust when I spot a _fucking eyeball in a jar_ , right where anyone can see! Compared to the main street, this place is a dessert, and the only sparse people are all junky-looking ones, with shrewd, suspicious eyes, a couple with dark cloaks that hide their faces, and an old hag.

 _'Knockturn Alley_ ,' I gather. I see one of the junkies stopping to leer at us, and I glare with bared teeth, tugging Tom closer to my side. _'Just try it, arsehole.'_

Tom keeps a wary eye on the same junkie as he wonders quietly; "Where are we?"

"I don't know, but we should go." I start tugging him back to the swarm in Diagon, but Tom refuses to move, instead examining the stores and things -all illegal, I'm sure- in display. "Tom?"

"Let's look around," he suggests. The leering junkie shuffles away with his buddies, leaving us with the old hag at the stand and the homeless man sitting on the ground, thirty feet away and with a couple of bottles at his side.

I shoot him a flat look, sweeping my eyes around pointedly. "Yeah, for a good fucking reason. You _do_ see the floating eyeball over there, don't you? And the pedophile vibe from the people?"

"Don't worry, Dorothy, I'll protect you," he coos sweetly, mockingly, with a squeeze of my hand.

"Tom, you are a scrawny, slightly malnourished eleven year old," I deadpan. "You can't protect shite from _me_ -much less against full grown, magically educated _adults."_

He lets go of my hand to cross his arms, scowling up a storm. "I can _to_ -I just don't like rolling in mud, and can solve my problems _without_ violence, unlike _you_ ," he snarls.

I snort, loudly. "Says the boy that tried to, more than once, literally _butcher a rabbit._ Or tied and gagged Amy under the stairs, or-"

"That's different!" he snaps.

"How?" I challenge and arch a brow at him. "They all hurt them physically, not to mention the potential emotional scarring. I'd say those are pretty fucking violent."

Tom gets this mulish look, expression scowling deeper and his lips pursed so much that they disappear. He knows that I'm right (I often am) but he'd rather eat dog shite than admit it. And we both know that we know it. Instead he points to the store next to one that has the eyeball in display and says; "Let's check this one out. Afterwards we'll leave, all right? Just ten minutes."

"Ten minutes, my arse! I know you, Tommy, and if we go inside there we'll be there for at _least_ an hour. That is if we don't get kidnapped before then," I retort, crossing my arms and turning away slightly stubbornly. "No, we're getting the hell out of here _right now_."

"Fine, then," he sniffs haughtily. _"You_ may wait outside if you want to so badly." And then the prat just-just _walks inside the creepy arse store without another word._

"Tom! Tom, get your arse back here!" I'm ignored. "Fucking prat," I growl under my breath and follow after him angrily. "When I get my hands on him...!" No respect for his elders! It's horror-movie night all over again, I'm telling you! Common sense? Nah, that shite ain't no where to be seen!

 _'Nora and Jacob would have listened to me,'_ I can't help but compare bitterly.

A bell on the door sounds when I open the door, and the cashier from the front desk on the far side gives a narrowed, curious but suspicious look. It seems like the shop, supposedly a strange and dangerous nick-knack store with a small corner with five animals in cages is empty aside from the cashier, me, and my _stupid_ twin.

"Get that smug smirk off your face," I order him waspishly, watching him as he examines the shelf in front of him. "Ten minutes, and that's _it._ Not a second later. Prat."

His lips only stretch further at my words, but he doesn't turn to face me. "Dorothy, look at this," he points at the wicked dagger resting on velvet, plush pillow inside of a glass case. "It says it's cursed, but I wonder what it does?"

"I see it," I say simply, displeased that he's looking and finding such objects.

"Can I help you two kids?" A gruff voice speaks directly behind us, and I jump.

I spin around, coming face to face with the old cashier with rumpled clothing and a cigar between his lips. I pull a face as the smoke reaches my nose, and I resist the urge to snatch the cancer stick and snap it in two.

"We're just looking," I tell the man, stepping slightly in front of Tom as I do. I purse my lips when Tom steps out of my shadow and into the man's direct view.

"Then get out," the man orders flatly. "I don't have time for two snot nosed prats to be wasting, if you ain't buying anything."

I give him an (obviously fake) smile and say cheerily; "Of course, sir, we'll be-"

"How can we know what to buy if we don't look first?" Tom cuts in, raising a brow. "You must understand that we want to spend our money worthwhile, right?" He smiles charmingly, like all is right with the world and _of course_ you can trust us, sir, we would _never_ try anything in _your_ store.

The man huffs, eyeing us closely. "Where are your parents?" he asks.

"Close by," Tom lies smoothly before I can. "They said that they would meet us in five minutes."

"Mmm," the man hums, not believing the rubbish for a second. "Is that so? Well, I'll be just over there" -he hooks a thumb to the front desk with a drag of his cancer stick- "Watching, in case you need anything." The warning of _"don't try anything"_ being clear as day.

"Thank you, sir," Tom dips his head in acknowledgment.

The man leaves and sits at his desk, continuing to watch us, like he said he would.

"Hurry up, Tom, so that our parents don't worry," I tell him impatiently.

He wanders over to the animals, and I stay at his heels. My eyes are drawn to the rather large and hairy spider, and the sleeping bat beside it, however I see that Tom is looking at the empty fish tank with a heating light inside of it, reading the description on the front.

"What are you looking at?" I ask, peeking over his shoulder.

 **"These two-leggers are smaller than the others,"** a body-less voice comments.

 **"Shut up, I'm trying to sleep,"** another hisses.

Tom and I share a wide-eyed look.

 **"Hello?"** Tom speaks up, quietly, hesitantly.

There's a tense moment of silence until the first voice speaks again: **"Speaker? Get up! Did you hear that, brother?"**

**"Leave me be, I told you I'm trying to sleep."**

**"Where are you?"** I question, inching closer to the tank in wonder.

**"What?"**

**"Two Speakers..."**

Suddenly, a red and black coiled snake appears inside of the tank. Almost as surprising as the appearance, though, are the _two_ heads attached to the same body.

I suck in a breath, and beside me Tom does the same. I glance at the description and read; _"Venomous two-headed snake, breed unknown. Possesses invisibility and born in captivity. Twenty-five Gallons."_ Huh. That's definitely interesting.

 **"Yes, my sister Dorothy and I are Speakers. Do you know what breed you are?"** Tom inquires.

The two heads look at each other before answering, much like Tom and I. **"No."**

 **"We are but hatchlings,"** the other on the left adds. **"We hatched here, but the old two-legger feeds us, and it is warm here, and so we have had no reason to leave. Are you hatchlings as well? You are much smaller than the non-Speakers that we have seen."**

 **"We are,"** I reply the same time as Tom furrows his brow and questions:

**"Really? You never once wondered about the outside world?"**

**"Do you have names?"** Tom and I find that wild ones don't, with snakes usually being loners and never needing a name in their lives, and will refer to themselves and others by their breed (what they call their types, anywise) while pets sometimes take on what their owners name them.

 **"Names?"** the right one tilts his head curiously.

_'Well, that answers that then.'_

**"It's what us two-leggers call each other in order to differentiate. You already know that my name is Dorothy, and my brother here is called Tom,"** I explain. **"Would you like a name? Since there are two of you guys?"** It would make _my_ life a little easier, in any case, instead of referring to them as Number 1 and 2, or Righty and Lefty.

 **"I am called Brother,"** the right one states.

 **"As am I!"** Lefty responds excitedly.

I snort. **"That's not a name, that's a title."**

 **"What about Aaron and Oscar?"** Tom offers. **"They both represent strength."**

 **"But which one is stronger?"** Righty asks.

 _'Yeah, they're definitely siblings,'_ I muse dryly.

 **"I don't know,"** Tom shrugs and lies. I know he's lying because we had to look up character names from a class book, and found out that Oscar means 'divine strength' while Aaron is 'mountain of strength.'

 **"I will be Oscar,"** Righty says after a moment of consideration.

"I see you found the double headed snake," the cashier observes blandly from behind us.

I once again startle, swearing softly under breath, as my heart jumps in my throat. _'Oh, God, did he hear us?'_ Does he know that we're Parselmouths?

"It doesn't usually shows itself, or hisses so much..." he adds, mostly to himself, before seemingly to snap himself back to the present. "You've been in here long enough now, so if you ain't buying nothing then get out," he orders crossly. Then offers a slimy smile; "I'm sure your parents are worrying, eh?"

 **"Righ** -Right!" I choke out, mentally cursing myself and snatching Tom's bicep while avoiding eye contact. "We'll be going now." I force Tom to follow me out of the store and hurry back into the bustling crowd, deciding that I've had enough for today and leading us to The Leaky Cauldron.

Beside me, Tom is uncharacteristically silent and sober, making no move to dislodge my grip. I don't try to break the silence either.

I don't think the cashier found out about our ability, probably assuming that all of the hissing was from the snake(s)? But after my slip up I really didn't want to hang about and find out otherwise.

Later that evening, when Tom and I are eating supper with Mrs. Chapman -Tom the Bartender having already eaten during his break- Mrs. Chapman asks us:

"A big day; tomorrow. How do you two plan on getting to King's Cross? Will your Matron take you?"

Tom and I glance at each other. It's Tom that responds:

"No, Dorothy and I planned on walking. Mrs. Coles is much too busy attending to the muggle children..."

That much is true, but we know that the only other option is Martha. And Martha, unlike Mrs. Coles, would _not_ be satisfied watching us go without seeing us step onto the train with her own two eyes. And how exactly can we convince her that running head first into fucking _brick wall_ is perfectly normal?

This seems to personally offend the woman, for some absurd reason. "Walk?" She repeats, incredulous. "I know you two know your way around, and you're mature for your age, but walk to the train station all alone? That's too far!"

Tom gets this glint in his eyes, watching as Mrs. Chapman works herself up, and he ducks his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed. "Well, we don't have much of a choice. We'll have to wake up at six, if we want to have enough time...We don't have any other transportation, see..."

I offer Mrs. Chapman a soft smile and play along. "I'm sure we'll be fine with just the two of us..." I trail off meaningfully.

She falls for it, hook, line, and sinker. "Rubbish!" She declares, setting her fork down with a loud _clang._ "I'll take you myself! So don't you worry, dears. Come here at eight and we'll floo there together."

Tom lifts his head as we chorus "thank you" simultaneously, discreetly high-fiving under the table.

We leave shortly after that. Wool's Orphanage is about a twenty-five minute walk from the Leaky Cauldron, and nothing out of the ordinary happens until we're a block away from Wool's. It's then that I suddenly feel something long and thick slither up my leg.

"What the _fuck!"_ I jump, exclaiming shrilly and doing the ants-in-my-pants dance.

"Dorothy?" Beside me, Tom startles, utterly bewildered.

 _"There is something under my clothes!"_ I screech, disgusted shivers running up my spin as my hairs stand on end. There -right bloody there- you can see the outline under my stockings -and, oh God, _it's moving up to my torso!_

Tom's own eyes bug out as he sees it for himself.

I lift up my shirt to see... _Nothing?_

_'The fuck!?'_

But, still, I swear I feel a couple somethings brush against my chest and collarbone. It's then that two familiar, reptile faces pop out of my shirt, and the rest of the body wrapped tightly around my torso appears.

 _'Oh, it's just them.'_ My heart rate immediately calms down when I see them, and I sigh in relief while dropping my shirt. My eyes narrow, though, as the situation truly sinks in; _'Wait a fucking moment-'_

 **"What are you doing to my sister?"** Tom hisses angrily, in more than one way.

 **"She is warmest,"** Aaron replies as if that should answer everything.

Well, I imagine my body heat _would_ be higher than the average, concerning all of my layers, but still! **"You almost gave me a heart attack!"** I accuse, greatly irritated. " **And how did you escape, anyways? What are you doing _here?"_**

 **"We have decided to join you,"** Oscar says, completely ignoring my first question.

 **"Have you, now?"** I say dryly. **"You know, a fucking _warning_ would be appreciated next time you _decide_ to climb me."**

Oscar tilts his head at me. **"We apologize for scaring you, Speaker,"** he tells me not at all sincerely.

 **"We're not going to feed you mice ourselves,"** Tom warns them, but there's a hungry gleam in his eyes as he says it. **"And Dorothy and I will be moving to Hogwarts soon, where there will be a lot of non-Speakers. You'll have to be invisible most of the time."**

 **"That is fine, so long as there is warmth,"** Aaron agrees easily.

And so that is how we ended up getting a pet for school, without spending a single knut. Tom and I plan on asking our Head of House to keep them once we're there, of course, but if it's no...Well, Oscar and Aaron's invisibility is surely to come in handy, and it will be our little secret. But as I lay in bed, staring up at our ceiling and with Tom sleeping soundlessly beside Oscar, Aaron, and I, my mind wanders to the basilisk.

Of course, this makes me think about the Chamber of Secrets in general. Tom isn't supposed to find it until Fifth Year, but...

I'm not an idiot. I know that _anyone_ and _everyone_ is capable of murder, including myself, given the right situation. And as much as my dear twin _isn't_ Voldemort...I can't delude myself into thinking that the path still isn't impossible. As much as I loathe it. (And I loathe it _so much.)_ It makes me nauseous, but it's still there, haunting, taunting me...

But what can I do but try to convince him that not _all_ muggles are bad? It's an uphill battle already. And all of the muggleborns? He's only eleven years old, still innocent for all of his greedy, manipulative ways, but he's naturally going to change as he grows older...

With heavy dread settling in me, I glance down to my bedmates. Then, an abso-fucking-lutely _brilliant_ ideacomes to mind, lifting my consuming dread for the future. It's _perfect_ -why did I never realize this sooner?

I quietly cackle, falling asleep with a wide grin and no more worries.

* * *

Next chapter the twins will finally be going to Hogwarts -who else is excited?

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** Can you think of any situations, characters, or scenes that you want to see at Hogwarts?

 **2.** What do you think Dorothy is going to do concerning the Camber of Secrets, and what will be the consequences of it be?

 **3.** What was your favourite part?

 **4.** What was your least favourite part?

 **5.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **6.** Do you have any questions?


	6. Down The Rabbit Hole

"Hello" -Normal speech.

 **"Hello"** -Parseltongue.

 _'Hello'_ -Thoughts/Silent telepathic twin-speech.

"Hello" -Telepathic Sorting Hat speech.

* * *

_Dear Little Brother,_

_In my last letter, I promised you that one day I would tell the story of the Princess of Snitches herself, Rebecca Cornwall, and how I almost got arrested at the tender age of thirteen. Well, today is that day._

_I don't remember much about my time during Middle School, but I sure as hell remember_ that _day. See, it all started in seventh grade, when my class's new homeroom teacher, Mr. Grayson, was a total bastard. Like Mr. Wadsworth level of bastardly, and the only thing that made him less was the fact that he didn't use corporal punishment. I don't know if he would if he were allowed too, however I'm pretty sure he would. (Or maybe that's just old grudges speaking. I don't fucking know.)_

_His miserable, old and wrinkled face still haunts me to this day. The old peoples' smell constantly clung to him, his shrewd, bitter eyes glaring at me over his thick glasses, his sharp voice ringing in the air, and his cane loudly echoing his every step..._

_Anyways, I don't know why he chose to become a teacher, because it certainly wasn't for the pay, aside from the chance to make us poor, defenseless students' lives utter_ hell. _He was the type of stuck up adult that would_ _assign you a whole extra essay if you were five minutes late to class, and refused to extent any deadlines even if you spent the last two days in bed, as sick as a dog. He especially hated the chatty and arrogant students, which in the time of Middle School was most of the boys in class. Still, he kept a special place of hatred for Rebecca and I in his heart that was two sizes too small._

 _More than anyone, Rebecca loved to talk. She also fancied herself the class clown, always telling jokes and whispering snide remarks to her desk mates in class, both when Mr. Grayson was lecturing and not. And it didn't matter where Mr. Grayson moved her because she was friends with everyone. I'll admit that I was the one who laughed and encouraged Rebecca the most -she_ was _a great conversationalist and comedian after all- which earned me Mr. Grayson's ire._

 _All of the resentment between Rebecca, I, and Mr. Grayson finally blew up in March, after a an especially difficult science test. Neither Rebecca nor I really studied for it, but still, we thought the mark that was given to us was totally unfair. 52%, Tommy, 52%! Rebecca and I_ burned _with the injustice of it._

 _And so, of course, Rebecca having spent her free time giggling over strangers' prank ideas on social media, she came up with a '_ brilliant' _idea._

_She proposed that we tinfoil the shite out of Mr. Grayson's things. Something harmless, but oh-so-funny and annoying nonetheless. I, the absolute idiot at the time, also thought it was a grand idea._

_(And let me tell you, if Nora or Jacob tried the same shite that I'm about to tell you, I would have definitely ripped them a new one, even at the age of thirteen. What can I say? I've always been a horrid hypocrite, as I'm sure you're aware. Although in my experience most oldest siblings are. Case in point; my old friend Zoe being super anal about her four younger siblings eating cereal after twelve o' clock, because her mum wasn't one to spend a lot of money on the_ good _shite_ _, the kind that's full of sugar and that isn't bagged and doesn't taste like_ _deceit. Oh, but on the rare days when Zoe was home alone for a meal? She would absolutely be devouring a bowl of cavities. But I digress.)_

_We ended up recruiting two others -well, we invited one, Jasmine-something, but her younger brother by a year somehow discovered our diabolical plot and threatened to tattle if he wasn't allowed to tag along._

_Anyways, we all agreed that we would bring our own tinfoil and meet up at the school. After asking our parents, whom thankfully agreed on such short notice, Rebecca's parents thought Rebecca was staying the night at my house while my parents thought I was staying over at Rebecca's. We lived close enough during the time that both of us walked to school in the mornings, and had been over at each other's previously that it wouldn't be a problem to walk home the next day. (No, the thought of where the actual hell we'd be really spending the night and sleeping never crossed our minds.) Jasmine and her brother -I forget his name- meanwhile, simply planned to sneak out of the house while their parents were sleeping and return before they woke up._

_So, three days later when we got our dreadful test scores back; on Friday after school when we were "supposedly" going to each other places, Rebecca and I hid ourselves, our backpacks full of things for the fake sleepover, and a role of tinfoil from our kitchens, in a janitor's closet._

_Yes, you read that correctly; a janitor's closet._

_It's a good fucking thing that Rebecca and I decided to squeeze our tiny arses on the very top shelf, too, because if not we'd have been caught by the janitor that night. The janitor had opened that very same closet more than once during his shift, and every time he opened the door we waited with bated breath for him to simply look up...Yet, I must have had a rabbit's foot shoved up my arse without knowing it, because he never did._

_I'm not sure how long we actually stayed cramped up there, but by the time the janitor finally returned his mop bucket and we climbed down, I felt as old as Mr. Grayson looks with my aching limbs and cracking and and popping joints._

_We had to wait a while for Jasmine and her brother to show up, but when they did by the agreed upon boot-room back door we let them in. And it's then that shite had hit the fan._

_Yes, as the complete dumbarses that we were, we totally forgot about the cameras and alarm system. We were fucking high on adolescent arrogance, alright? (And in case your overly magical-dependent arse forgot; muggles have created cameras that can take videos -something similar to magical photos, only videos can pack a lot more action time and you can fast forward or rewind at your leisure- and then other electronics that will let the authority know when someone is breaking and entering.)_

_Of course, after a minute of being frozen in terror, we ran like bats out of Hell. I imagine the others ran back to their houses, but I can't be sure. I did, in any case. Unfortunately, the front door was locked at the time -must have been one o' clock in the morning by then- and I had to wait for my Mum to open the door._

_It was as incredibly awkward as you're imagining it._

_I, being shaken up about the whole ideal and probably as pale as a ghost, still breathing heavily from my sprint and my backpack barely holding onto my shoulders, sputtered some bullshite about Rebecca and I getting into a major fight and that I no longer desired to hang out with her._

_"Why are you wearing a burglar's mask?" my blearily-eyed Mum demanded, dressed only in her bathrobe and hugging it close to herself._

_As damning as that black beanie (which I cut holes into and pulled over my head because I thought I was being a clever little shite) was at the moment, it soon became my only saving grace._

_To cut a long story short, early next morning a police officer came knocking and told my parents that I was being accused of breaking and entering, and attempted vandalism._

_...Yeah..._

_Only thirteen years old, and already being sued and taken to Court. Apparently when the cops questioned Rebecca, Jasmine and her brother earlier, Rebecca had squealed on me. Fucking bitch. But Jasmine and her brother refused to name the fourth person in their party, and along with the fact that I was the only one who covered their faces, I still had deniability._

_My parents were adamant that I was with them the entire night, and that they had_ no idea _about Rebecca supposed sleepover on either side. I was almost done in when the police tried to condemn me using my backpack, but with the power of a very expensive attorney I was able to get off on the skin of my teeth. To this day I'm still reeling over how incredibly lucky I was during the Court hearing._

_It's the rabbit foot, I'm telling you!_

_But, oh, my parents were utterly and completely_ _fucking_ furious _with me...I'm positive that if it wasn't for how much my Mum cares about her image and reputation as a famous actress, she would have left me to the wolves. Can't have the media get wind of her horrid daughter's actions, could she? I was worked like a dog for the following two months, repenting for my sins, and I was grounded for another two months even after the first two._

_So, that was the most memorable event that I have at school as just Olivia. I wonder what mine will be at Hogwarts, as Dorothy?_

_(PS: If you_ ever _try to pull a stunt similar to the one I just told you about, you better be prepared for a_ world _of pain, courtesy of your's truly.)_

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 1st, 1938.**

"Are you sure that you have everything, dears?" Mrs. Chapman asks us.

"Yes," Tom and I respond simultaneously.

"Thank you again for taking us," Tom offers her a charming smile, heaving his trunk closer.

"Yeah," I agree lamely, shifting uncomfortably as I feel the brother snakes curl tighter around my rib cage. As much as I've hanged out with snakes and have carried them about in the past, it's still...Weird, for a lack of better word, to feel their cool and scaly body against my bare torso. Currently, they're the length of my fingertips to my shoulder, and the width of wrist, so I wonder how long they'll grow to be if they're only hatchlings right now...And if I'll still be able to hide them on my person in the years to come.

They were very adamant that _I_ would be the one to smuggle them to Hogwarts, under all of my layers. Not that Tom nor I argued, because with aforementioned extra layers it's easier for me to hide them than it would be for Tom. And they'd probably suffocate if we put them in either of our trunks.

"Right, well, do you remember what you ought to do?" Mrs. Chapman grabs the small floo powder bowl on the ledge.

"Step into the fire, and shout 'Kings Cross' clearly before throwing the powder down," Tom repeats confidently.

"Right!" Mrs. Chapman beams. "Now, who wants to go first?"

"I can," I say and step forward, taking a handful of the green powder. Mrs. Chapman helps me heave my trunk into the tall fireplace, and I clutch the handle tightly with one hand before barking; "Kings Cross!" with a flash of green.

I end up stumbling out of the fireplace, my truck tumbling over with a loud _thunk_ , and coughing up a lug. I can taste fucking _ash_ at the back of my throat- _and I suddenly can't breathe._ Desperately, I claw at the snakes constricting, crushing, around my rib cage and airway.

 **"Let-Go!"** I choke, gasping and fumbling. I'm beginning to see stars in the corner of my vision...

"Dorothy!"

I'm faintly aware of Tom crouching on my side, a small hand on the back of my neck.

"Dorothy, what's wrong?" He demands. "Dorothy...!"

I gasp again, then, when some of the pressure is lifted and I can breathe a bit easier, although I'm still being tightly clung too.

 **"What are you doing?"** he hisses furiously, his hands under my shirt and jacket, trying to pry the snakes' body away from me. **"Let her go! NOW!"**

 **"What was that?"** Oscar hisses back, and I can feel his head peeking out of my collar.

 **"I did not like that!"** Aaron joins in.

"Tom? Dorothy? What's wrong?" behind us, Mrs. Chapman steps out of the green cloud of smoke, concerned and bewildered at the sight of us on the ground.

Tom's hands slip out from under my clothes, and he stands to block Mrs. Chapman's clear view of me. "I'm afraid that the...Floo didn't agree with her. She said she's feeling a bit nauseous," he lies while wringing his hands.

 **"Don't fucking do that again,"** I tell Oscar and Aaron harshly but quietly under my breath. The burning desire to ripe them off my body and throw them far away is building up inside of me, but I forcefully stamp it down and raise on slightly unsteady legs.

Tom is immediately at my side, hovering and visibly unsure on how or if he should support me or not. I wave both his hands and silent question away.

"I'm fine," I grumble, though pleased about his concern nonetheless. "I'm fine," I repeat, louder, this time to Mrs. Chapman. "Let's just go."

Mrs. Chapman frowns, but still helps me with my trunk as we walk towards the waiting train. "I'm glad that I didn't take you two on side-along apparition then, if the floo makes you sick," she comments.

"What's that?" Tom asks curiously.

"Think of it as muggle teleportation," she smiles at him, amusement lacing her tone. "You can get your license when you're of age."

Tom tucks this bit of information in his mind for a later date. We board the train and say goodbye to Mrs. Chapman, who seems a bit teary-eyed if I squint. I'm...Not sure how to feel about that, so I decide to put it out of mind.

"Should we try to find an empty compartment, or join someone else?" I ask Tom.

He eyes not my face but chest warily as he answers; "An empty one."

And so we do, though it does take a while. As soon as we do find one and slide the compartment door closed I peel Oscar and Aaron off of me, dumbing them on a seat. I rub my chest, already knowing that my poor skin is going to bruise as I glare at them. They turn visible.

 **"Mind explain why the _fuck_ you tried to kill me, huh?" **I snarl and fold my arms angrily.

 **"We are sorry, Speaker,"** Aaron dips his head. **"It...Scared us,"** he confesses. **"We didn't mean to hurt you."**

 **"It wasn't right, and it tasted funny,"** Oscar agrees, curling his body and shaking his head.

 **"But you _did_ hurt her," **Tom informs them in a clipped, cool tone, with narrowed eyes. **"And a simple apology isn't going to change that."**

The moment of silence between the four of us is tense, thick and palpable. Until finally I relent, and after heaving my heavy trunk up and away I sit down next to the snakes. **"Just don't do it again, okay? Because I'm not going to carry you if you hurt me like that a second time,"** I sigh. Somehow I feel drained without my anger, even though we haven't even left the train station yet.

 **"We understand,"** Oscar says, slithering their way on my lap.

 **"Yes, we will be more careful. But no more of the horrible, cold hole,"** Aaron adds.

I can tell that Tom isn't happy as he too settles across from us, but there ain't shite I can do about it.

 **"You can't be visible right now. Not until we get permission from our Head of House,"** he reminds them curtly. It's a good thing that he does, too, because the second after Oscar and Aaron disappear the compartment's door slides open harshly.

The strawberry blonde, fifteen looking Hufflepuff girl winces at her own actions, but nonetheless addresses Tom and I: "Hey, are you two First Years?"

Tom and I glance at each other, before answering simultaneously; "Yes."

"Great! Do you mind if my sister shares your compartment? She's a First Year too." She steps to the side, allowing us to see a smaller and shy version of the older girl. I can't see her face, though, because her long hair is in the way and she won't look up from her shoes.

"Sure," I shrug my shoulders carelessly. "We got room, right, Tom?"

I know that the interruption annoys him, but despite that he plasters on a smile and says; "It's no problem at all. My name is Tom Riddle, and this is my sister Dorothy."

 _"Older_ sister," I can't resist but pipe up, a teasing look Tom's way, who rolls his eyes.

"Maturity is another matter, however," he retorts, lips twitching up in amusement when I gasp dramatically.

"Ruth Armstrong," the Hufflepuff introduces herself, smiling at our antics. She pointedly nudges her sister, who mumbles:

"Barbara. It's nice to meet you." She tilts her head up for a peek, and I'm able to glimpse a blush on her cheeks.

I inwardly cringe on her behalf. _'She's_ painfully _shy...'_ Even more than Nora.

"Well, you three enjoy yourselves. Barbs, you know where to find me if you need to." With that, Ruth pushes her sister inside and closes the door with finality.

Barbara stands awkwardly for a couple of seconds, before sitting on my side but far enough away that another person could sit between us.

"Are you muggleborn?" I ask her curiously. It might shine some light on why she's so shy and unsure of herself.

She shakes her head. "No; halfblood. My parents were both muggleborns, though. Are you?" she returns softly.

"No," Tom answers quickly, firmly, before I can.

"Well, we don't actually know to be honest," I correct. "We're orphans and muggle-raised."

Barbara's eyes widen and her cheeks redden further, while she shrinks slightly in her seat. "Oh. Sorry..."

"It's fine," I wave her apology away. "We're used to it."

 _'...Cue another awkward as fuck silence.'_ Urg.

Tom seems to have given up, pulling out the transfiguration textbook and proceeding to ignore the rest of us. I try once more with Barbara:

"What House do you think you'll be sorted into? Tom and I think Slytherin."

She simply shrugs, and there's a moment where she hesitates before adding; "Well, um, I heard that Slytherin doesn't let muggleborns in...So, um, if you're sorted there then..."

"We're either halfblood or pureblooded, right?" I finish for her.

"Really?" Tom questions with high brows, proving that he's not _completely_ ignoring us at least. "What else do you know?"

Barbara shrugs again, eyes still glued to her lap as she fiddles with her sleeves. "My Dad -he's Ravenclaw- said that the Houses' mascots were the Founders' patronuses. Nothing else, though."

"What's a patronus?" Tom asks.

"Oh, it's, uh, a spell that get rids of dementors and can send messages to other people," Barbara blinks.

"And dementors? I haven't read about those," Tom glances at me.

"I have," I pipe in. "They're Dark creatures that eat people's souls. The Ministry uses them to guard Azkabane, the wizarding prison."

He gives me a curious look. "Where did you read that?"

"In a book," I respond cheekily. It's true -just not the type of book they assume.

Tom shoots me a very unimpressed look. I just grin back at him. But the conversation dies from there on, and any attempt to draw Barbara into another on is like pulling fucking teeth, so I let the silence drag on and pull out my own makeshift Animagus textbook.

Later, when the sweets trolley comes knocking, I buy a chocolate cauldron to share with Tom, and Barbara declines in the favour of what her mum packed for her. At some point, Tom and I leave to change into our Hogwarts robes, Oscar and Aaron slipping back underneath my clothes and causing myself to look thicker than I actually am, but besides that the trip is entirely anti-climatic. Well, that is until we spot the castle in the horizon.

"Tommy, look!" gleefully, I nudge him with my foot and point out at the window. "You can see Hogwarts!"

Both he and Barbara stop what they're doing to stare. It isn't much, if I'm being honest, since we're probably a good half hour away yet, but excitement bubbles up and threatens to split my face in two nonetheless at the sight of the tiny towers and a bit of the highest level, peeking out of the rows of trees.

"I see it," Tom breathes when a clearing passes us by, and we're able to see it all at the great distance for a few seconds.

When the train station finally pulls to a stop, and a voice on the announcement tells us to leave our things on the train, Tom and I all but run off.

"First Years! First Years, over here!" an older man hollers, gesturing for us to gather around him. When it seems like he has all of us, he continues; "Right. I'm the groundskeeper, Hugo Cooper. I'll be taking you to Hogwarts, so please follow me..."

Tom squeezes my hand as we walk, and I squeeze back. Just like in the book, we're led towards the lake, where boats await us.

"Only four in a boat!" Mr. Cooper tells us sternly.

Tom and I end up in a boat with two other boys. My first thought when I look at one of them is; _'Wow. He's so fucking pretty.'_ Seriously! With such fair, clear and smooth looking skin, captivating icy blue hues, an adorably small nose...And with that soft and voluminous platinum blonde hair, the boy can't be anyone _but_ a Malfoy. _'Looks like dear Tommy has some tough competition as a Pretty Boy,'_ I muse. Which is _so_ un-fucking-fair! Like, why are these _boys_ more cute and beautiful than _me,_ the actual _girl?_

The vain part of me _burns_ at the injustice. I touch the back of my own thick hair, which can never seem to stay untangled for longer than ten minutes.

The other boy is all dark where Malfoy is light. Brown hair so dark it's almost black, chocolate eyes, and freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.

"Who are _you?"_ the second boy 'asks' with the slight upturn on his nose, clearly already looking down at us based on the quality of our robes.

Well then. If there was any doubt about them being spoiled, prejudiced prats before, there certainly isn't anymore. Tom squeezes my hand, and even without glancing at him I can tell that he's simmering with the judgement radiating off of the two. "Didn't your Mum ever tell you that it's rude to ask someone's name before giving your own?" I drawl with a sneer of my own.

The second boy flushes angrily.

"My name is Abraxas Malfoy, and this is my friend Reinhard Lestrange. And you two are?" Malfoy says bluntly.

"Tom and Dorothy Riddle," Tom responds simply, but not without calculation. Probably already figuring that they come from money based on the 'importance' Malfoy spoke both of their last names with, difference of quality among robes, and snotty attitudes. Smart boy, my Tom is.

"I don't recognize Riddle as a pureblood's name. Do you, Abraxas?" Lestrange turns to Malfoy.

"No." It's Malfoy's turn to look at us with hardly veiled disdain.

"Are you a halfblood?" Lestrange continues to pester. "Because I _don't_ want to be sharing a boat with a couple of _mudbloods,"_ he adds with visible disgust.

"We're not muggleborns," Tom returns snappishly, defensively.

This seems to appease the boys somewhat, not that I give a flying fuck. So far they've met very one of my expectations, but that doesn't make the disappointment within me disappear. _'If only they knew.'_ But oh, I'm sure they'll be changing their poor opinion of us soon enough.

I inwardly _cackle_ as I feel Oscar and Aaron shift against me. I can hardly wait!

No more conversation is made as the boats start moving. I'm not usually one to be awed by scenery alone, but after we've pass through the small tunnel and the full scope of the grand castle is revealed, I can't help but gasp a little. It's even more enchanting than I originally thought it would be -both literary and figuratively. I squeeze Tom's hand and he squeeze's back, just as taken as I am.

Once the boats dock themselves and everyone climbs out, Mr. Cooper leads us up the flight of stone stairs. Dumbledore is the one that opens giant front doors after Mr. Cooper uses the door knocker, smiling down at us wee prats with a twinkle in his eye.

"Thank you, Mr. Copper, I'll take them from here," he says pleasantly. He doesn't look at either Tom or I directly as he asses the small crowd before him, before turning around and leading the way.

I can feel my stomach doing nervous flips as as I's and other's steps echo throughout the posh hallways, the tiled floor gleaming beneath us. Eleven fucking years I've been waiting for this day...

We stop at a particular set of double doors, which I assume leads to the Great Hall.

"Before we enter, I would like for you to stand single file in alphabetical order," Dumbledore addresses us.

It takes us a while to sort each other out, but when we finally do Tom and I find ourselves third to last in line.

"Wonderful," Dumbledore smiles. "Now, when we go in you are going to wait by the Head table for your name, and then step onto the front and sit on the stool to be Sorted. Understood?"

He gets a general sound and responses of agreement. And so without further ado, the double doors open with a casual flick of his wand and we walk inside.

If I tear up a bit at the sight of everything, the beautiful and unworldly ceiling, floating candles, whispering and chattering students and ghosts alike, the Professors waiting at the head table, and most importantly the Sorting Hat sitting on the wooden stool at the front...Well, that ain't anyone's business but my own.

I admit that I'm not all... _there_ from everything when I wait off to the side with the rest of the students to when my name is called. I hear everything, sure, but it's more muffled as if I'm underwater, and goes in one ear and out the other. And I can't focus on one thing -the tables ahead of me is all blurry as shite, people's faces even more so.

It's the sharp sound of Dumbledore's voice saying my name, and Tom nudging me, that finally gets me moving. The intense butterflies that have been dropping by now and again during the summer are back again with something fierce, climbing up my throat and threatening to choke me, as I shakily make my way to the stool. I feel like I can hardly breathe as I sit down and the Hat is placed upon me, the pressure in my lungs increasing almost painfully.

"Relax, child, I'm simply here to Sort you."

I can't help but jump at the sudden, intrusive voice in my mind, despite expecting it on some level.

"Hat?"

"Yes?" the Sorting Hat asks gently.

I take a calming breath to the best of my abilities, and ignoring my racing pulse in my ears, I say; "Don't you fucking _dare_ put me in Gryffindor."

The Hat laughs. Actually fucking _laughs._ The warm sound of it rings between my ears. "But, oh, my dear, you have such _courage._ Godric would have been mighty pleased to have one such as you in his House during his time. Breaking and entering a school at thirteen? Going outside still when the sun is out despite your deeply rooted fear of it? I dare say that red and gold would look wonderful on you."

"I was Sorted into Slytherin in Pottermore. By J.K Rowling _herself_. You will _not_ take that away from me," I snarl, my hands subconsciously gripping the edge of my seat harshly. "Besides, I thought you Sorted based on a person's values as well, not just their characteristics? Otherwise Fred and George Weasley would have been in Slytherin."

As brave as those twins were in the books, it was _such_ bullshite that they aren't snakes. They _breathed_ resourceful and cunningness everyday of their prankster lives, and not to mention their impressive ambition to invent new things and open a Joke Shop -and being fucking _successful_ at that- despite their mother's best efforts otherwise. I would be fucking _proud_ to call them fellow Slytherins. Even their older brother Percy could have had a place in the dungeons with his grand ambition to strive in the Ministry rankings, if one ignored his utter shite talent and/or desire for being cunning.

"It is true that you have potential in Slytherin," the Hat muses. "You are a very resourceful for a child, I admit, have a good head on your shoulders for leadership and a sharp eye for the subtle art of manipulation. Salazar certainly wouldn't have minded having you, even if we ignore his relation to yourself."

"Let's not forget what I did to that God's forsaken piece of trash, after what he dared to do Jacob," I add darkly.

"What -Oh," the Sorting Hat trails off, probably reading my old memories of what _precisely_ I did. What I _gleefully_ did, and without an ounce of remorse whatsoever even years after the crime. Because a poor, shitty excuse of a human being _dared_ to scar my little brother -a type of emotional scar that mercilessly, viciously tore out my own heart and crushed my soul as I helplessly watched it haunt him until my dying day, and it probably still haunted him long after it- and in such _sickening, disgusting_ way-!

"Do you disagree with my actions?" I ask the Hat carefully when a moment of silence passes us by without a word. Not that I _care_ what he thinks -I'm simply curious, is all.

"...No," the Hat finally tells me firmly, although admittedly very sadly. "I am sad to say that, while I certainly won't tell you any names, that I have seen similar situations that your dear brother found himself in their households, by their own relatives even. It is nice to see the people get served the proper justice they deserve for once."

Well, ain't _that_ some depressing shite.

"Are you sure that you don't want to be in Gryffindor?"

_"Yes." _

"Better be Slytherin then!" the Hat hollers out loudly. "Do drop by some time, though. I would love to learn more about your mysterious and puzzling first life!"

Dumbledore lifts the Sorting Hat off me, revealing the faces of the other students in front of me again. The table on the far right and a few stranglers from others claps politely for me, and I glance to my left to meet eyes with my twin. I can't help but chuckle when he sends me a double thumbs up, a bright and wide smile of his own.

Feeling as if a mountain has been lifted from my shoulders, I jump down the stool as Dumbledore calls out "Riddle, Tom!" and make my way to the Slytherin table with a bounce in my step. I notice that Barbara made it into Slytherin as well, to my mild surprise, and sit down next to her.

"Hey," I offer a smile.

"Hey," she repeats with tentative smile of her own.

"Slytherin!" the Hat certainly doesn't waste anytime Sorting _him._

I _swear_ smugness practically _oozes_ off of him as he saunters his way to my slide and slides next to me. "The Sorting Hat was a lot quicker to Sort me than it was you," he remarks to me teasingly.

 _'Prat,'_ I think fondly. "Nah," I snort with a dismissive wave of my hand. "He just didn't want to be touching your _filthy_ head any longer than he already had to. Me? I was a _great_ conversationalist -even asked me to visit him again sometime."

He shoves my shoulder playfully, which I laugh at in response and shove him back. "It's not _my_ head or hair that could be mistaken for a rats nest!" he snipes back.

"Knotty and dirty are two entirely different things!" I retort. But then the next second I reflexively flinch, a shiver running down my spine, as a wet tongue flickers against the skin on my naval. I almost forgot that I had a two headed snake wound tightly around me for a second. They've been so quiet, and one can get used to the constant extra weight after a while.

Tom's eyes immediately fly to my chest, but he doesn't dare hiss anything with so many people so close.

The rest of the sparse students after Tom and I are are Sorted, and then the wizard that I assume is Headmaster Dippet stands up to give his welcoming speech. It's not strange or a bit erratic like Dumbledore's is in the books, but rather bland considering the whole "welcome back/Hogwarts is excited to welcome so many new bright students" spew and some reminders of the rules.

What _i_ _s_ impressive was the absolute feast that appeared right after Headmaster Dippet's opening speech. Beside me, Tom takes a quiet but sharp intake, staring at the large spread with wide eyes before he can control himself.

We share a brief, awed glance.

I waste _no_ time in piling my plate with beef, mashed potatoes, yorkshire pudding, and drowning all of it in rich gravy. It tastes like I imagine heaven would, and I dutiful ignore the stink eye I receive from another female First Year sitting across from me as I gobble it all down. I enjoy dessert even more so, and after I've eaten as much as my poor stomach can handle I begin to carefully put some sweets in my expendable handbag that I've taken to carrying on me for tomorrow. I can't be sure if dessert is just a feast thing or not, after all, and it's better to be safer than sorry.

"Are you seriously going to eat _more?_ You really _are_ a pig, aren't you?" the girl that had been giving me the stink eye earlier questions snidely. "You _do_ realize that they'll feed us again at breakfast, right? You don't actually need to hide food in your bag," she snickers behind a hand, glancing at her friend on the right who joins in quietly.

I frown, but before I can fire something biting back an older girl a few seats away speaks up, craning her neck to us First Years properly:

"Oi, I hope I ain't hearing you trying to _diet shame_ someone else, girl," she drawls.

"Who are _you?_ I'm a Rosier, and-"

"I don't care _what_ your last name is," the older girl interrupts the prat bluntly, and my respect for the stranger grows with each passing second. " _I'm_ a sixth year that can make your wee First Year self life utter _hell_ , which is all _you_ need to know. So I better not catch you trying to shame others for how much they do or don't eat again, or any type of bullying for that matter, Princess." The older girl gives her own stink eye at Rosier before turning back to her slightly amused looking friends.

Rosier is left sputtering, saying something about how she wouldn't _dare_ threaten _her,_ in which the older girl simply shoots her both a flat, unimpressed and pointed look in return without another word.

It's my turn to snicker, and I make sure to remember the older girl's appearance for the future. I have a strong feeling that Tom and I will fit in here just fine.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What did you think about Olivia's little adventure in the beginning?

 **2.** What do you think about Dorothy's talk with the Sorting Hat?

 **3.** What was your favourite part?

 **4.** What was your least favourite part?

 **5.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **6.** Do you have any questions?


	7. The Royal Fuck Up

"Hello" -Normal speech.

 **"Hello"** -Parseltongue.

 _'Hello'_ -Thoughts/Silent telepathic twin-speech.

 **Hello** -Writing.

* * *

_Dear Little Brother,_

_Have you ever fucked up so badly, so royally...Well, that it's simply indescribable?_

_I have._

_You're probably thinking about the Rebecca Incident, aren't you? Fair enough -cause, I mean, breaking and entering the school and almost getting caught is pretty damn high on the Fucked Up list, especially for anyone as young as I was. But no. Perhaps it's third in the order being the biggest mistake, but it's certainly not second nor first place._

_First place changes depending on how selfish and bitter I'm feeling that particular day. I'll be the first to admit that; I'm not a good person._

_(I don't have a bleeding heart. Nor one made of gold. I always told people back when I was just Olivia that if I had to choose between saving myself from certain death or abso-fucking-loutely_ anyone else, _that I would save my own skin first and foremost. Without second thought and regret. Sure, I'd probably be a bit messed up afterwards thanks to the trauma that would surely follow given that situation, but I would have the rest of my life to talk it out with a therapist._

_I can't be as sure of that same conviction anymore, given that I have some (or more than I did) idea of death and the so called 'afterlife,' but I think I'd still sacrifice another if it meant I could see another day. Yes, I'm a terribly selfish bitch, already on my second life and still clinging to more. But I've long ago made peace with that fact as Olivia, and I have again as Dorothy._

_As Olivia; at times I've pretended that I didn't see the boys in my school getting a little too rough in the hallways or playground. There were times that people in need, hungry and homeless people, who were only a few feet away but not once did I dare to look at them directly. I had pulled my money or food closer and passed them by without so much as a glance, because even though I_ knew _that I had some to spare, and that it would mean a lot more to them than to me, I simply_ didn't want to. _Didn't care enough. It was that same part of me that dreaded adulthood, because then extended family would expect me to buy them presents as well. I was begrudging enough buying some out of my own money when I was sixteen and older for my two siblings._

_That's my Deadly Sin: Greed. But I digress.)_

_Ironically enough, it was during one of my charitable moments that led to my other Biggest Mistake, rivalled only to the numerous years of tanning without fucking protection. And I wasn't even the one who ended up paying the price for it, either._

_I've come to learn there are three different kinds of Fuck Ups. The first one, the one that I experienced thanks to the Rebecca Incident, is the kind that leaves you paralyzed. Rooted to the ground, frozen stiff, because of the_ overwhelming _fear. It sends blood rushing to your ears and causes your heart to log itself in your throat, allowing only whimpers and intelligible mumbling through. And when people start pushing, pushing for answers and yelling reprimands, big fat tears will suddenly swell up and roll down your cheeks (whether you want them to or not) and all you're able to do is either cry and plead for forgiveness or duck your head and silently take the abuse._

 _The second kind, the type that comes when you're a fucking idiot and give yourself skin cancer because you were a vain bitch, is the one that fills you to the brim with anger. First, your mind blanks because of the shock. It sends you flying, reeling, and grappling with the desperate denial of_ "this can't be real." _You cling to those weak threads of denial with white knuckles, but when those threads eventually wither and sever away, you end up crashing with your world in tiny, bloody pieces at your feet and are left with nothing but your anger._

 _You may try to glue those bloody and broken pieces back together; lay them out and painstakingly fit them like a puzzle. You smile and thank people when they try to help you, offering kind words of support and encouragement, but you both know that their words are as useless as your smile is fake. Maybe you even manage piece your world back together for a time, even if there are some pieces missing and others are forced together, creating a picture that clearly isn't right but it's the best that you could do, and you think "it's there, isn't it? It's glued and stuck together. It's fine._ I'm _fine." But with every probability score, every doctors checkup, every strand of loss hair, every_ fucking _failed_ _chemotherapy, your world slowly crumbles again. And once again you're left with nothing but your anger, and this time you realize that you have no more glue left._

 _And so you rage. You thrash and punch, shredding and tearing anything you can get your hands on. You scream at the unyielding Heavens until your throat becomes too hoarse. You cry and wail, begging and pleading and clawing for some kind of solace. You curl into a ball, desperately wishing that you could simply_ disappear _as you taste your salty tears._

 _And you know what comes out of all of this? Nothing. Abso-fucking-loutely_ nothing. _Nothing but the cold and hollow feeling of your anger abandoning you, just like your denial and foolish hope, that is._

 _Because when everything is all said and done, when you've exhausted every possibility, action, and emotion...Well,_ that's _when you truly have nothing left. Not even the energy to be angry. You don't rage, don't cry or beg, don't do anything but sit and stare at nothing as the cold hollowness within you grows and consumes you entirely._

 _People will try to drag you back, will say all kinds of flowery shite and try to stuff you full of false hope, but they may as well be on a different realm of existence. You can't even feel annoyed at their words and efforts because even though they_ say _that they understand what you're going through, they don't really. You don't bother attempting to reassure them with your fake smile anymore._

_Then there's the third type. The third kind of Fuck Up also overwhelms you with pure anger, but while the previous kind was white hot and left you blind and stumbling with a chaotic mind...This one is clear and sharp. It pierces you, sinks it's claws into you, and steals the breath right out of your lungs._

_There aren't any threads of denial, or if there is it's fast to slip through your fingers when you gaze back at the other person's eyes. Because you are_ not _the one to pay the true price for your horrible, unforgivable mistake. Yet you feel the powerful blow nonetheless._

_You feel it every time you look into those haunted eyes, eyes that cry out the question of "Why? Why me?" in which all you can do is fall to your knees and shake your head helplessly, your own eyes squeezed tight against the big fat tears that keep falling even if you have no right to cry._

_Guilt festers inside of you like poison every time you see the black, blue, and yellow alike spots. There's a heavy lump in your throat every time the person stays inside instead of going out, every bump and sudden noise or presence that makes them flinch away. Because you know. You know their world has shattered into tiny, bloody pieces at their feet. And you know it's_ your fault.

_But unlike the second type, there isn't any cold hollowness waiting for you. The clear, sharp anger fuels you, gets you moving._

_And move you do. Because you can think, see things clearly, despite what others might say otherwise. And there is no guilt or regret for what you do to the only other person responsible for the pain._

_That all being said, I think I found a fourth type of Fuck Up._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 2nd, 1938.**

I wake up to a mouth full of hair and the loud, rude sound of someone closing their truck harshly.

"Where is it?!" Someone demands, to the continued noise of rummaging through things.

Bleary-eyed, I untangle myself from behind Tom and try to pick off the hair on my tongue. God only knows if it's his or mine...

"Dorothy?" Tom yawns, stretching his arms and back.

"Morning, prat," I return with a yawn of my own and a bright smile. After all, today _is_ the official start of our Hogwarts days, and first day of classes. I push his bed's curtains back, to the utter bewilderment of the rest of the First Year boys.

"Merlin's beard!" Alphard Black _literary_ trips over himself in an attempt to cover his bare chest.

Behind me, Tom snorts quietly at the sight, and my own lips twitch in amusement.

"What are _you_ doing here, mudblood?" Lestrange, still in his blue pyjamas, spits out angrily. "This is the boys dorm!"

I sneer at the slur, my brilliant mood damping, and with only a flicker of my eyes the rug beneath him suddenly rips away, causing him to fall flat on his arse. I slide off Tom's four poster bed and flick the bulk of my bed head over my shoulder. "Call me that again, I _dare you_ , you fucking inbred cunt."

I've long ago decided that I ain't going to pull any punches with bullies, no matter their age. _Especially_ if they're one of the so-called 'Sacred Twenty-Eight.' Because just like what I do/did with dear Tommy, I have to stand firm and establish myself as someone you _don't_ want to cross early, or else they'd get it into their minds that it's okay to mistreat me at best and abuse me at worst. None of them respect me right now because of their bigoted upbringing, I'm fully aware, but goddamn it I will eventually _command it._ Starting _now._

When he does nothing but gape open mouthed at me, evidently shocked speechless, I turn to the other four boys. They all seem scandalized by _my_ words and actions, funnily enough, while Tom sits on his bed and watches silently. "I'm sorry for scaring you guys," I offer a smile. "I should have probably warned you. So I'll be going now."

Without further ado, I walk out and close their door, ignoring the curious looks that older boys shoot my way as I exit the boys' side of the dormitory.

I tried by best, honest, but after -what? Eleven years minus two to three weeks of sleeping side by side, I couldn't fucking _sleep._ I've grown too dependent on the sound of Tom's soft breathes in my ear, and the heat of his little body pressed next to mine. My new bed was much too large and cold, even with the sounds of the other girls in the room. I tried to tough it out for a couple of hours, but eventually I gave up and went crawling to Tom while everyone else were sleep. Based on how quickly Tom made space for me in his bed, and how tightly he held me during the night, he found it just as difficult as me.

Obviously, this is a problem. I can't depend on Tom to fall asleep for the rest of my life, especially now that we have different dorms. But I can't quit cold turkey, either, so...Baby steps. _'I'll sleep on my own on the weekend,'_ I decide. Better to feel like shite on the weekends then it is to on the schooldays. After all, this is one school experience I _do not_ want to waste!

The First Year girls' dorm is identical to the boys, aside from the number of beds. (There are six First Year boys in total, while there are only five girls.) In any case, the four poster beds have a deep forest and black bedding, a dark wooden nightstand on each side of the beds, a medium sized wall lamp between each bed, the floor is carpeted -although it still does a shitty job of keeping the floor from freezing- and of course our trunks at the end of the beds.

When I walk inside, the three girls whom are awake pause to see. Druella Rosier -the same long honey blonde haired prat with a sharp nose and heavy lids from the feast and also half of the only other set of fraternal twins in Slytherin- wrinkles her nose at me, as if she smelt something particularly foul, but otherwise ignores me. The third halfblood, Lilith Fox, a tall girl with short curly brown hair and white bow, bounds up to me with a blinding smile that shows off her dimples.

"Hi!" she cheers. "Dorothy, right? Can I call you Dorothy? You can call me Lilith or Lil if you want-"

I raise my brows at her babbling, but say "Sure, Lilith."

She brightens further towards my positive response. "Brilliant! I hope that we can be friends -by the way, where were you earlier? I was just curious, because I woke up pretty early and didn't see you, is all."

I shrug my shoulders. "I was with my brother Tom."

"Oh! You guys are twins, right? I've always wondered what it would be like to have a twin, someone I could trick or swap places with for fun-"

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Rosier snaps, glaring over at us as she fixes her skirt. "No body _cares_ what you think or wish, halfblood."

Lilith frowns at her, visibly hurt from Rosier's harsh words.

Irked, I tell Lilith; "Ignore her. She's just prissy that you're prettier than she is."

Rosier flushes and makes a sort of outrageous sound as Lilith giggles nervously. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Barbara stealthily slipping out.

"She is _not!"_ Rosier sputters. She even stomps her foot!

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," I drawl. _'Prat.'_

"What's going on? Druella?" The only other pureblood in the room, Lydia Nott, a slightly chubby girl with long frizzy hair sits up from her bed and sleepily murmurs.

"Come on," I nudge Lilith, and begin undressing.

Lilith, who was already mostly ready by the time I got here, is ready before I am. When it becomes clear that she's waiting for me, I wave her off: "I'll meet you in the Hall."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Um, okay then."

With Rosier also gone and Nott in the connected bathroom, I quickly lift my bed sheets to see Oscar and Aaron curled up in my bed. **"Hey,"** I whisper. **"Are you guys okay here?"**

 **"Speaker, why did you leave us?"** Aaron rears up and demands...Sadly?

 **"Er, sorry, but I couldn't sleep so I went over to Tom..."** I blink.

 **"It is too cold here!"** Oscar joins in. **"You should have taken us with you."** If a snake could pout, he'd be pouting. As it is, they are both sounding upset.

 **"Sorry,"** I repeat. **"I'll do that tonight? But, anyways, I gotta go-"** I check over my shoulder to make sure that Nott hasn't returned **"-So you two are stuck here. If you stay invisible, I'm sure you hang out in front of the fireplace. That'll warm you guys up."**

 **"No,"** Oscar refuses stubbornly. **"You are warmest. We will stay with you, right, brother?"**

 **"Right!"** Aaron agrees eagerly.

I frown. **"I'm not going to have any extra layers this time, and I have to get to class."**

"What are you doing?" Nott wonders behind me.

I curse and snap back the covers to hide the brothers and twirl around. "Nothing!" I fire back defensively, too hastily. She's several feet back, still at the bathroom's doorway, which is directly behind be on the other side of the room. I squint suspiciously, but I don't _think_ she saw them...

Nott clearly isn't buying my bullshite, but nonetheless she let it ago, gathers her satchel, and leaves. Once I'm sure non of the girls aren't hanging out by the door, ready to slam it open and shout "HA!" or "GOTCHA!" I flip my covers over again.

 **"Look, I really gotta go now, so just stay here, alright? I'll leave the door ajar so that you slither down to the fireplace or whatever. Just stay _invisible._ Don't let anyone see you. Tom and I will ask Professor Slughorn about you later," **I order firmly before stuffing my handbag with all of my textbooks and supplies -I don't have my schedule yet- and leaving.

I spot Tom tapping his foot impatiently with his arms crossed by the common room's exit/entrance, and when he in turn sees me he lets out a breath and rolls his eyes. _"Finally,"_ he complains, falling into step with me as we walk in the direction of the Great Hall. "What were you doing in there? Digging for your lost dignity?"

"Oh, shut up, prat," I try to shove him but he evades. "I had to wait for the other girls to leave so that I could talk to Oscar and Aaron. Speaking of, I think we should ask Professor Slughorn about them after classes, but before supper. If we're lucky we'll have potions last period."

"I wanted to check out the library, but I suppose we could simply find it after talking to Professor Slughorn, or after supper depending on how long the talk lasts," he muses. "Do you think we'll have to show him Oscar and Aaron, or that we can simply _not_ mention the fact that the snake has two heads? Just to be safe."

I consider it. Tom has a point after all -Professor Slughorn may say yes to us keeping _a_ snake, but the two headedness might be a deal breaker. Not to mention the invisibility part. On the other hand, this is _Slughorn,_ and if he stays true to his personality in the books...

"I'm pretty sure he won't give us permission unless he sees them for himself-" at least not this early, and not having a history of being super dependable, super talented, and super favourable students "-And I think he'll over look the two headedness when we amaze him with our ability to talk to snakes. Let's just keep their poisonous and invisibility status to ourselves, yeah?"

Tom stops me with a hand on my bicep. "Since when are we telling people about _that?"_ He hisses.

I arch a brow at his sudden aggressiveness, as if I didn't expect this response and he's being completely unreasonable. "Why shouldn't we?" I challenge instead. "It's not like we're hiding from the muggles anymore, Tom."

"You saw how Dumbledore reacted," Tom counters testily. "I think we should keep this as our little secret."

"No."

He bristles. "Why not?" he demands.

"Because I want to show off," I lie smoothly. _'Because even if you open the Chamber of Secrets, you can't do shite if everyone knows that you're a Parselmouth. You'd be thrown in jail faster than you can say "mudblood," goody-two shoes reputation or not.'_ "Come on, I know you're _dying_ to show everyone how special you are," I add with sly look and a nudge of my elbow. "Just imagine how amazed everyone will be, students and teachers alike, if it's as rare as Dumbledore made it seem!"

Tom purses his lips as he gives me a dirty look in return. He knows that I'm right on that front; always needing to be in the spotlight, that one. "We can research more about it later today. When we go to the library, and we'll wait to introduce Oscar and Aaron to Professor Slughorn until we know more. But we won't tell _anyone_ about what we can do until then, got it?"

"Sure, sure," I wave him off as I resume walking, even as I mentally cross my fingers.

"I mean it, Dorothy. _No one._ Not until we know more," Tom hedges with narrowed eyes.

"I hear you, Tommy."

The Great Hall is surprisingly noisy and crowded once we arrive, buzzing with activity and chatter. Tom and I have to walk all the way down the Slytherin table, near the head table, where the rest of the First Years seems to have been shuffled down to with a couple of exceptions. Lilith spots me immediately and smiles widely, waving us over to her side.

"I almost didn't think you'd make it!" She laughs lightly as I sit beside her and Tom beside me. On her other side, Barbara is quietly eating. "Oh, I'm sorry-" Lilith glances at Tom "-I'm Lilith Fox, but you can call me Lilith or Lil if you want. You're Dorothy's twin, right? Tom?"

Tom arches a brow at me before plastering on a polite expression for her. "That's right. Do you have any siblings yourself?"

"No, I'm an only child," Lilith shakes her head. "But I was wondering -who's the older twin?"

"That doesn't matter, we're _twins,"_ Tom frowns at the same time as I cheekily grin and wave:

"I am. By twenty-three minutes, to be exact."

"Yes, a whole, _impressive_ and _wondrous_ twenty-three minutes," Tom rolled his eyes, tone dripping with sarcasm.

I sigh dramatically, resting my elbow on the table and my cheek on my hand. "They were the best twenty-three minutes of my life..."

"Shut up, you would be _nothing_ without me!"

I squawk when he flings a piece of bacon at my forehead, causing Lilith to laugh. "You really want to go, eh, _little brother?"_ I leer at him, picking up a piece of egg with my own fork. _'Come on, I_ dare _you,'_ I add silently.

Tom has that stubborn look on his face, the one that says _"I'll sooner back down when Hell freezes over."_

"I guess it's true what they say about the less pure, isn't it, Sebastian?" Lestrange loudly speaks up from a few seats way, sneering in our direction. "They're a bunch of barbarians; playing and throwing their food!"

The other pureblooded First Years openly snicker, and Lestrange looks very proud and smug of himself for it.

I'm the only one to notice the tips of Tom's ears turning red, either from anger for being made fun of or embarrassment for being caught acting childish. Probably a mix of both.

Honestly, I'm just wondering what the hell is Lestrange's problem. It's not like any of the food got on _him. 'He's probably trying to save face after I made a fool out of him earlier,"_ I muse. I briefly consider firing something back, perhaps even flinging food at him for petty's sake, but then I realize that giving him any kind of response in this situation would be giving him power over me, as little as it might be. And since when did I give a flying fuck about what a snot nosed prat thought of me?

So, concluding this, I nod to myself and elect to ignore him, giving Lilith back my attention. "What class are you looking forward to the most?" I ask her curiously.

Lilith opens her mouth, but before she can get a word in Rosier cuts in with a mean smirk:

"My brother told me that you had a _nightmare_ last night, Riddle, and that's why you weren't in your own bed this morning. Is that true? He said that he couldn't sleep because of all the screaming."

"Oh, _absolutely,"_ I purr before I can second think it, "See, I just couldn't get the image of your hideous face out of my mind."

I delight in the girl's immediate angry flush more than I should. A couple other First Years bark out or snort in surprise amusement, and I'm pretty sure I spot an older student in the corner of my eye -a skinny, weedy black teenager who's all arms and legs and whom introduced himself as Joseph Spademan last night, one of the Fifth Year Prefects- choke on his drink.

"You-You-!" Rosier sputters indignantly.

"Me-Me?" I arch a brow at her.

"Heston!" Rosier whips her head towards her twin, causing her hair to hit a blinded Nott. "Are you just going to sit there and let her speak to me like that?!"

Heston Rosier, who doesn't really look like her brother with his darker hair, big blue and grey eyes, and rounder face, much less her twin, stares at her like a deer in the headlights. All _"Who? Me?"_ and _"What do you want_ me _to do?"_ like.

 _"Heston!"_ Rosier the Girl hisses pointedly.

Rosier the Boy finally shakes off whatever stumped him, and he scowls at me. "Apologize," He orders me 'menacingly.'

"Or what?" I can't help but snort. He's adorable, really, for thinking that he could intimidate _me._

He takes out his wand and points it at me. "Or I'll hex you!" he threatens, standing.

"Take your wand off my sister," Tom demands coldly, pointing his own at the other boy with narrowed eyes.

"Oi, oi!" Spademan immediately raises and comes between them. "Settle down and put your wands away, or else I'll have to give detention. _Now,"_ he says sharply, when neither boy moves.

Rosier the Boy glares at all three of us, but does as told and then Tom follows suit, sitting back down. Tom returns Rosier's glare, causing him to flinch just a tiny bit.

Spademan sighs. "Good. Now, I don't want to see or hear anymore fighting between the four of you, got it? Save it for the common room." He pointedly glances sternly at Rosier the Girl, who huffs and turns her nose away haughtily, but still doesn't say anything. Spademan returns to his own seat, a wary eye on us First Years.

Tom shoots me a look; _'We're talking about this later.'_

 _'Oh? Alright,'_ I return nonchalantly and silently.

The incident seems to have killed all other conversation, but luckily Professor Slughorn soon comes with our schedules:

** Monday: Double Herbology with Gryffindor, lunch, Flying Class with Ravenclaw, and then Potions with Hufflepuff. **

** Tuesday: Transfiguration with Ravenclaw, Charms with Gryffindor, lunch, then double DADA with Hufflepuff. **

** Wednesday: Flying Class, Transfiguration, lunch, Herbology, and then Astrology after dinner at nine pm with Hufflepuff. **

** Thursday: Double Potions, lunch, then double DADA. **

** Friday: Double Charms, lunch, Transfiguration, Flying Class, then Astrology after dinner. **

I grin, seeing Potions as last _and_ having Flying Class on the same day; today! Lady Luck must be smiling upon me.

"Let me see your schedule," I hear Spademan tell Malfoy, who is nearest to him.

Confused, Malfoy does so without a word.

Spademan hums. "Herbology first, eh?" he gives it back to Malfoy. "Well, finish eating quickly and I'll-"

"Spademan!" Dorea Black, with her slick raven hair, high cheekbones, and slim self comes sauntering towards our end, grey eyes only for her Prefect partner. "Are you escorting the First Years today, or am I?"

"Well, I thought that we agreed I would take them Monday, Wednesday, and Friday while you take them Tuesday and Thursday for the first week, and then switch next week." He raises a questioning brow at her.

Black simply nods in understanding, and then turns back around.

"Black and I will take turns escorting you to your classes during the first couple of weeks, so that none of you end up lost and getting Slytherin in trouble," Spademan explains to us with an easy smile.

Ah. _'Makes sense.'_ "Are the other Houses doing the same?" I wonder curiously.

He shrugs. "I know that Hufflepuff is. Don't have a clue about the other two, though. So, let's finish up so that you guys don't make me late for _my_ classes."

"Um, excuse me..." Barbara speaks up softly when we're about to leave for Herbology, blushing and avoiding direct eye contact with everyone.

"Yes?" Spademan asks.

"I, uh, forgot my books in the dormitory..."

Spademan sighs, and Barbara seems to shrink into herself with it.

"Me too! I didn't want to be carrying them _all_ , so I decided to wait until I knew our schedule," Lilith chimes in, resting a comforting hand on Barbara's arm.

"Anyone else?" Spademan questions, glancing around the little crowd in front of him.

"Me as well," Malfoy admits.

"Yeah," the short, square and baby faced Avery agrees.

"There goes my perfect record," Spademan mutters under his breath, barely audible to my own ears. To us, he says; "Alright. Well, let's hurry then. And make sure that you have all of your books and supplies for class in the mornings now that you have your schedule, because otherwise you'll have to find your own way. Got it?"

And so we go back to the Slytherin dormitory. While everyone else goes to their respective rooms, I wait by the entrance with Spademan. When he quirks a questioning brow at me, pointedly glancing at my visible lack of books, I raise my small, red handbag.

"It's bottomless," I say as a way of explaining.

"Smart," he nods.

"Thanks," I grin.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your quick wit earlier," he comments idly, after a moment of comfortable silence.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he smirks, and I notice a tiny, faint scar in the right corner of his mouth. "Between the two of us, spoiled purebloods are the _worst._ Some of them mellow out somewhat in later years thank Merlin, but I have yet to meet one that isn't a complete prat to begin with. I pity your brother especially. I mean, sharing a room with five of them, and two of them being _heirs_ to boot, for seven long years?" he grimaces, and I can't help but laugh. "But if he shares even have of your smarts, then I'm not worried."

Feeling all warm and fuzzy at Spademan's words, I smile softly. "Tom _is_ insufferably smart. He never lets me forget it, either," I remark fondly.

Barbara is the first to return, and the others are only seconds behind. When Tom comes down I let him put his things in my bag.

_'Thank fuck that it also has a feather light charm!'_

Rosier the Girl wastes no time in dumping her satchel on her brother's shoulders, who grunts at the extra weight but doesn't otherwise protest. Seeing her, Nott eyes the rest of the pureblooded boys critically, all of whom suddenly find either the walls or their shoes _very_ interesting.

I don't bother hiding my snort at their obvious behaviour. But now that I look, everyone aside from Tom and I have satchels for their books. Even Lilith and Barbara do. _'Did we forget it on the list?'_

Just when Nott begins to pout, Avery sighs and offers a helping hand. She beams and passes her bag over, thanking him cheerily.

"Right! Everyone has everything?" When Spademan gets nods and noises of agreement, he nods and begins walking out. "Then follow me, everyone."

Unlike in the books, we don't immediately go to one of the greenhouses. Instead we're led to one of the classrooms on the main floor, where the Gryffindors and an older wizard are. Professor Butler has very clearly spent most of his life in the outdoors with his heavily tanned skin, and my stomach twists itself into knots and my skin crawls just looking at him. Other than that, he's average height and plumbed, the remaining of his grey hair cut short, and a pair of round glasses rests on the bridge of his nose.

Professor Butler thanks Spademan for escorting us, to which Spademan replies that it's not any trouble at all, and instructs us snakes to wait for him after class.

"What greenhouse will you be in?" he asks Professor Butler before leaving.

"The third, I believe," Professor Butler answers.

Herbology is...Boring as hell. It starts off well enough, with Professor Butler outlining everything we're going to be learning this year, what to expect, and what he expects of us as his class. We then do a couple ice breakers, everyone having a turn to introduce themselves to the class and telling a few of our interests and what we're looking forward to the most in Herbology.

But then he starts lecturing about valerian sprigs and dried nettles, both plants that are used in potions and both that I have already memorized everything to know about with Tom over the summer. And the prat won't even pass notes with me, wanting to present himself as the model student even though I _know_ he's as bored to tears as I am.

Second period we go to the greenhouse, where Professor Butler shows us everything we need to know while in the greenhouse and where all of the proper equipment is and how to use them. Then we get into planting the valerian sprigs and dried nettles, and are told that our future grades depend on how well our individual plants turn out, along with all of the other plants that we will be planting.

Honestly, I spend the majority of the time glancing at the clock and wishing that the afternoon classes would be here already. I mean, _flying?_ Actually _flying_ on a broomstick for real? Yes fucking please! Not to mention my plans for after Potions...

The only remotely interesting thing that happens is the couple of dimwitted Gryffindors that decide it's a good idea to poke fun of the snargaluff in the corner, almost getting seriously maimed by the sharp horns if not for the Professor's quick reflexes, and the docking of twenty points from Gryffindor.

It was less fun when Slytherin loses ten because Lestrange, Malfoy, and Avery starts laughing at the foolish Gryffindors, and earlier when a Gryffindor girl with auburn hair and braces complains about Professor Butler's grading system because she thinks that us Slytherin are going to sabotage their plants.

 _'Well, that's definitely a possibility_ now,' I think dryly, eyeing how annoyed and offended my Housemates are at the rude accusation.

Lestrange in particular sneers at the Gryffindor girl. "As if we _need to_. You'll botch up your own plant all on your own, filthy mudblood!"

People gasp and the Professor's face reddens, and even though I earn myself a detention along side Lestrange when I shove his face in a pot of dirt, taking care to truly _bury_ his nose in it, I don't feel a lick of regret. Seeing Lestrange spit out dirt and scramble away from me is all the satisfactory that I need.

"Twenty points from Slytherin!" Professor Butler steams. "My word! There will be _no_ such language in my class, Mr. Lestrange, and Miss Riddle, no matter how mad we may be we _do not_ shove our classmate's face into the dirt or anything else in this greenhouse! And on the _first day!"_

I keep my head held high and offer no apologies, even as I feel several eyes burning holes into my head -the most glaring one being Tom's.

 _"Behave,"_ Tom hisses into my ear once I return his side, his hand clamping tight onto my wrist.

I curl my lip into a mocking smile. "So long as he and the others watch their fucking language," I whisper back.

The rest of the class runs smoothly, and before leaving Professor Butler informs the class that there will be a short quiz on safety in the greenhouse next Monday, and reminds Lestrange and I to meet him tonight seven o' clock sharp for our detention.

Most of the Gryffindors scatter, but the Gryffindor girl, and to whom I assume is her friend, hang back. Biting her lip, she awkwardly faces me while pulling on her sleeves. "I, uh, wanted to thank you for standing up for me. And, I'm sorry for, you know, accusing you of ruining my and the other Gryffindors' plants. I have two older siblings, see, and they told me..."

"Told you that we were a bunch of slimy snakes? That we can't be trusted?" I finish for her dryly.

"Yeah, that." she ducks her head, ashamed.

"There are good and bad people in the Houses alike. You shouldn't base a whole House just because of a few individuals. Especially when they're just hearsay," I tell her sternly. "But, I accept your apology."

She beams. "Thanks! Oh, and my name is Joyce Brooks by the way, and this is Beatrice," she gestures to her friend.

"Long," the friend adds.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later?" Brooks offers, and when I nod she smiles again before leaving with Long.

 _"Lion lover,"_ Rosier the Girl calls me scathingly, glowering. "I can't _believe_ that you lost Slytherin _thirty points_ on the first day!"

_'Excuse me?!'_

"Father was right," Rosier the Boy agrees, also trying to stare daggers into me. "You sort really _are_ good for nothing."

"It was Lestrange and the others that lost the points," Tom corrects them sharply before I could.

"Yeah, the only thing I did was earn myself a detention," I add waspishly. "And I'd do it again," I direct the last bit to Lestrange himself.

When he looks half a second from cursing me into next week and takes a step forward, Lilith panics and places herself between Tom, I, and the others with her hands up as if to sooth tension.

"Hey, let's just all calm down, alright? We-"

"Shut up, halfblood! You aren't any better than them! Merlin, I can't-"

"Oi, what's going on here?" Spademan loudly demands, interrupting Rosier the Girl. Even though he's still several feet away from us, Nott is quick to get me in trouble:

"Riddle here lost us _thirty points!_ And she has detention with Professor Butler tonight!"

Oh, the lot of them really _are_ begging for a good old fashion knuckle sandwich-!

 _"WHAT!?" S_ hocked, angry, Spademan exclaims and stares wildly at Tom and I. "Is this true?" he demands. He's now right in front of us, looming, with the smug little pieces of shites behind him.

"No!"

I don't know who bursts out first; Tom, Lilith, or me. But I continue desperately nonetheless; _"Lestrange_ was the one who lost the points-"

"That's not true!"

"-When he called a Gryffindor a mudblood-"

"I _did not-"_

"Enough!" He orders sharply, and Lestrange falls quiet under Spademan's furious expression. "I will listen to our side, but only _after_ Riddle." When Lestrange doesn't offer anything else or interrupt, Spademan turn back to me. "Continue," he tells me curtly.

I take in a deep breath, before starting from the beginning: "A Gryffindor girl started accusing us that we would sabotage their grades though their plants, although she _did_ apologize for it later, and then Lestrange called her a _filthy_ _mudblood-"_

-Said git makes a disagreeing noise in the back of his throat, to which both Spademan and I ignore-

"-And so the Professor deducted twenty points and assigned him detention. I _did_ shove his face in dirt when he said the slur, and got detention for it. But the Professor _did not_ take away points because of what I did. Then, later, a couple of Gryffindors started messing with the snargaluff and almost got hurt. Professor deduced twenty points from Gryffindor, and then Lestrange, Malfoy, and Avery started laughing at them. That's when Slytherin lost the other ten points."

"She's lying!" Lestrange snarls. "Right?" he glances between the other purebloods, who all agree and nod their heads adamantly.

"Alright," Spademan exhales, "Let's hear your side now."

_'This'll be fucking rich.'_

"It's true that a couple Gryffindors messed around with a dangerous plant, but it's because _she-"_ he points a finger at me, and oh, how much I'd like to _bite_ "-Egged them on! She _told_ them to do it! Professor Butler took away twenty points and assigned her detention when I him what she was doing, and then she shoved my face in a pot! Losing us another ten!"

Fucking rich, indeed!

Tom is squeezing my hand so hard that I fear that something of mine of going to give, him barely restraining his fury. If looks could kill Lestrange wouldn't even be a pile of ash right now.

"Is this true?" Spademan questions everyone else.

Of course, all of the purebloods back Lestrange up while Tom and Lilith defends me fiercely.

"Armstrong? Is Lestrange telling the truth?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Barbara shakes her head. "No, the Riddles and Fox are," she answers quietly.

"It's seven against four!" Rosier the Girl bursts out defensively. "You _can't_ honestly believe them-"

Spademan raises a hand, and Rosier falls silent. Sighing, Spademan rubs the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. After a moment, he opens them again and addresses all of us. "Alright, I'm going to talk with Professor Butler about this myself-"

"But-"

"-And that's _final,"_ he stresses firmly, louder. "He will tell me, and when I find out who exactly is lying, I will be assigning each of them a week's worth of detention. Because I do not take people lying to my face lightly, especially about another mistake or punishment. Am I understood?"

"Absolutely," Tom and Lilith answer him -dare I say it? Cheerfully- simultaneously.

"Yes," I say, smirking at the suddenly nervous looking purebloods. Pretty sure Lestrange is sweating literal bullets right now.

"Okay. Riddle, Lestrange, come with me," Spademan instructs. "The rest of you can find your way to the Great Hall for lunch. Here, actually -House Elf!"

A House Elf suddenly _pops!_ into existence, bowing low to us. "What can Weebly be doing for the misters and misses?" she asks.

"Make sure that the others find their way to the Great Hall. I'll be taking these two with me," he gestures to Lestrange and I.

"Of course, mister Joseph. Weebly be doing that right away. Come, young misters and misses." The House Elf starts leading them away, and even if they are all reluctant to go, they do, but the purebloods send barely veiled desperate looks Lestrange's way.

If Lestrange flinches away from me, when he glances my way, because of my shite-eating grin, well...

"Let's go!" Spademan barks, already a few feet away from us in his journey to wherever Professor Butler is.

"After you," I purr, bowing mockingly and sweeping a hand towards Spademan, my grin stretching impossibly further as I gaze up at him through lidded eyes. _'Oh, revenge is going to taste_ so _fucking delicious! And I don't even need to_ do _anything!'_

"Alright! Okay!" Lestrange squeezes his eyes shut as he explodes, his fists shaking at his sides.

Spademan stops walking to stare at him, and so does the other kids who are still within hearing range.

"I lied! I lied about all of it -I did call the Gryffindor a mudblood, and Riddle didn't egg on the two others!" he confesses angrily. "But she _is_ a mudblood -I was only speaking the truth- and _she_ made me eat dirt!"

Spademan is calm, but cold and detached, as he walks back to Lestrange, and the other purebloods are rooted in place with wide eyes. When he is in front of him, Spademan simply says; "A week of detention with Professor Slughorn." He turns to the others; "You too, Nott, Rosier twins, Malfoy, Avery, and Black. Perhaps next time you'll leave well enough alone, and learn to not lie to me or any other Prefect or Professor."

Maybe Herbology isn't so bad after all.

* * *

Since we wasted a lot of time arguing, plus travel time, and exchanging our Herbology things for Potions and Flying class, we only have enough time to grab a couple sandwiches and sit down for fifteen minutes before Spademan herds us away.

And so Tom doesn't get the chance to pull me aside to 'talk,' despite him itching to do so.

"Are we going to be required to carry around our cauldrons _every time_ we have Potions?" Avery whines at Spademan, arms full of _two_ cauldrons and with two broomsticks balancing carefully across them, having been peered pressured into carrying Nott's as well as his own, as we make our way to the Quidditch field.

(Every pureblood, plus Barbara, brought their own brooms from home. Except for Nott who apparently hates flying.)

Of course, Rosier the Boy is in the same boat as Avery, grumbling and staring resentfully at his sister's back as he makes sure to step carefully and avoid knocking into Avery's long brooms.

"No. Professor Slughorn will have space for you to keep your potions supplies in class, although you will have to keep your textbook with you," he informs him coolly, still upset over them lying to him.

Avery isn't the only one to give a big sigh of relief.

"Druella, can't you at least take your bag and broomstick back?" Rosier the Boy groans, struggling to keep the heavy and awkward load in his arms up.

She glances over her shoulder, looking insulted at the mere _idea_ of carrying her own things. "A proper lady _never_ carries heavy things -not when there's a perfectly able gentleman with her. That's what Mother and Father always says. You know that, Heston."

"Yes, but-"

"But _nothing,"_ she sniffs and faces forward again. "Just think about how strong you'll get," she adds idly after a minute. "Father will surely be impressed when we see them again for Yule."

Her brother keeps grumbling, though, until Black and Malfoy finally takes pity on the poor pack mules and grabs the girls' satchels from them.

Not for the first time, I applaud my brilliant forethought for purchasing my handbag, so that the only thing I need to worry about is the treat that I'm currently snacking on, to which I had smuggled the night before.

We beat the Ravenclaws to the field, where the brooms are already laid out. So _of course_ those of us that don't possess our own take our pick of the best looking ones, after leaving all of our things by a pillar.

The sky is clear and the sun is shining brightly, unfortunately, so I'm wrapped up like a bloody, over heated mummy. Thankfully, however, I managed to avoid the snake brothers while I was bundling up. I do _not_ want to be almost choked to death again because they piss themselves! (Everyone but Tom gave me strange and bewildered looks when they saw me. I think Lestrange was about to say something insulting, the sneer already forming on his face, but a glance towards Spademan stilled his tongue. As it is, Spademan and Lilith had asked me what the fuck I was doing, and didn't I know how warm it is today? I simply told them that I don't like to tan, and refuse to take any chances.)

Near the two lines of broomsticks are three separate obstacle courses of differentiating difficulties. One with simple, one-bar jumping poles of varying heights, all in a neat and straight line. The second with higher jumping poles, but behind them there are also other poles sticking straight up from the ground, which you clearly have to weave around. Lastly, the third obstacle course has jumping poles, weaving poles, _and_ tunnels that go up, down, and around. There's one that even goes in a loopy-do-loop!

"I don't want any repeats of what happened in Herbology, got it?" Spademan warns us before leaving, eyes lingering on Lestrange, Rosier the Girl, and I longer than the others. "Don't think I won't find out if you do. And remember to wait for me here so that I can take you to Potions."

The Ravenclaws arrive only a couple of minutes after Spademan leaves, and it's another few minutes until our flying instructor, Professor Wood, a burly man in his mid thirties, with sharp, shrewd eyes and gelled back hair, to appear with a broom of his own. It's obviously a personal one, because while the brooms at my feet aren't as bad as Harry made them out to be in the first book, Professor Wood's is clearly of higher quality.

 _'Is he Oliver Wood's grandfather? Or great-grandfather?'_ I wonder to myself as I listen to the Professor passionately lecture (read: fanboy over) us about flying.

"Now, remember, while I'm sure plenty of you have been flying for sometime at home, I don't want you to fly over six feet, you hear? And remember to be confident when saying 'up' -the broom won't come unless you're sure."

Tom is regarding his broom as if it's a rapid animal about to bite him, lips pursed and watching the others try to get their brooms up, before returning to his own with clear distrust.

"It's not going to bite you, you know," I tell him dryly with an amused quirk of my lips.

He ignores me and raises a hand over his broomstick, palm facing downwards. "Up!" he commands loudly, but the broom only rolls side to side pitifully. He frowns.

"It can smell your fear," I snicker.

Tom shoots me a half-hearted glare. _"You_ do it, then, if you're so brilliant," he challenges hotly.

Despite the eager, but nervous butterflies in my own stomach, I raise my hand, summoning my inner Big-Sister-That's-About-To-Rip-You-Another-One: "Up!" The broom smacks into my hand, causing my palm to tingle from the sheer force, and I break into a wide grin as I look back at Tom.

"Mine is clearly defected," he alternates between scowling at my and his broom.

"Do you need help?" Professor Wood asks Tom, having just finished helping a Ravenclaw across from us.

"No, I'm fine," he lies. He tries again, and this time the broom raises a foot before falling.

"Professor!" another Ravenclaw from the end of the line calls out. "I think my broomstick is broken! It's not moving!"

Professor Wood gives Tom one last glance before leaving.

"Up!" Tom orders loudly again. This time his broomstick flies into his open hand, although still not as eager as mine did. Triumphantly, he smirks at me.

I just roll my eyes.

Once everyone has summoned their broom, Professor Wood goes back to his place in front of everyone. "Alright, mount your brooms and kick off, class! But remember - _no higher than six feet!_ I don't want any medical wing visits on my hands."

Not needing to be told twice, I swing my leg over and kick off. Flying, hovering -whatever- even only a few feet from the ground, is so... _Surreal._ The skinny stick between my legs isn't nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be, and I surprise myself on how well I'm able to stay balanced.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Professor Wood praises us happily, before spotting the same Ravenclaw boy from earlier, who can't seem to stay in the air longer than a couple seconds. "Ah, here-"

Malfoy whispers something to Avery, to which Avery snickers at and whispers something back, sly eyes on the Ravenclaw boy as the Professor tries to correct him.

When the Ravenclaw is finally able to stay up in air, although a little shakily, Professor steps back and addresses the whole class again. "Now, I want each of you to line up single-filed in front of the smallest obstacle course. I will see where each of you are in terms of skills, and will have you practice on one of the courses depending on your first performance."

Most of the students land and walk towards the directed obstacle course, including Tom, but I along with a few other individuals decide to _fly_ there. I lean forward -and then my heart jumps into my throat when I over balance and my broomstick shoots forward.

"Oi!" Malfoy and Avery barely manage to pull away before I collided with them.

"Watch where you're going!" Malfoy barks at me.

"Yeah, you almost knocked us off!" Avery agrees, just as annoyed as Malfoy.

"Sorry, sorry," I apologize sheepishly as I pull my broom to a sudden stop, gripping it tighter and trying to re-establish my balance.

"You should be," Malfoy glares and snaps.

Irked and no longer apologetic -wishing I _had_ knocked them down on their arses- I scowl back. "I said I was sorry. Don't get your knickers in a bind, fucking prat."

To my displeasure, when it's Malfoy and the other pureblooded boys' turn at the smallest obstacle course, they are irritatingly _good._ By far, out of everyone in the class Malfoy is the smoothest flier here. And by his condescending smirk he _knows it._ Furthermore, unlike with my Tommy, his smugness and preening when Professor Wood compliments his flying and asks if he's trying out for the Quidditch Team next year _is not_ cute! It only gives me the overwhelming urge to swipe the smirk off his pretty boy face!

 _'Arrogant thing,'_ I snarl to myself as I watch him brag to his friends.

"Whatever you're thinking, _don't,"_ Tom, who is behind me in the line, warns lowly. "You're already in enough trouble as it is, Dorothy."

"Next!" Professor Wood announces.

A part of me -a large part of me- wants to race ahead and beat Malfoy's time, but the sensible part (who sounds suspiciously like Tom) is reminding me that this is my first time flying _ever,_ and if I do try to race ahead I'll more than likely fall off and make a complete fool of myself.

And so it is with great reluctance and regret that I take it slow and easy, going up and down as the jumping poles command it. Still, even doing it slow and easy is fun, for the simple fact that I'm fucking _flying,_ and I can't help but smile a little.

Tom is more hesitant when changing heights than I am, and I know that his knuckles are white without being able to see that closely on the other end, so I make sure to give him a thumbs up and a big smile when he's finished. "You did great, Tommy," I tell him.

Tom purses his lips in disbelief. "How is anyone supposed to ride these things?" he mutters bitterly as he re-adjusts himself. "They're horridly fickle."

"Practice makes perfect," I remind him. "Besides, you can't honestly tell me that being able to fly isn't _totally wicked."_

"I'd prefer to fly on my own and _without_ relaying on a flimsy piece of wood," he continues mulishly.

I just sigh, shaking my head at his negativity. I would shove him for trying to ruin this beautiful moment in my life if I didn't think I'd fall off myself in the attempt.

"See? Look at her," Tom jabs his chin in Nott's direction, who is pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf while Professor Wood ties to coax her to take her turn. Finally, when she stubbornly refuses to go any higher in order to pass the first pole, the Professor pulls her aside so that the people behind her can go.

Once everyone but Nott has gone, the Professor lists off who is allowed to use what course and instructs us to practice while he helps Nott and the Ravenclaw boy in a more free-styled flying.

* * *

Flying class ends much too quickly for my tastes, and us snakes are waiting for Spademan while the Ravenclaws hurry off to their next class and Professor Wood packs up for the day.

"Why do we have to wait?" Lestrange complains to no one in particular. "We're going to be late at this rate. I'm sure that we could find our own way," he tells his group. "We don't need some halfblood to lead us everywhere."

"I don't believe anyone is stopping you," Tom drawls at the boy, pointedly glancing at everyone one at a time. "Be our guest; do go on."

"I wasn't talking to _you_ , you-"

"Careful, Lestrange," Tom cuts him off with false sweetness, eyes glinting with something unkind. "Professor Wood is still here."

Red faced and angry, Lestrange can do nothing but huff and puff and turn his back on us. Despite Lestrange's complaints we don't really have to wait too terribly long for Spademan to get us.

"How was Flying class?" he asks as we leave the field.

I'm peeling off all of my suffocating, sweaty extra layers and shoving them in my bag as Lilith chirps:

"It was great! I had so much fun, and Professor Wood was really patient and nice."

Spademan chuckles rather darkly at that. "You've obviously never seen him during games or practices if you think he's _patient_ and _nice."_

"You're on the Quidditch Team?" Malfoy perks up, even though he was trying to act cold towards him because of his detentions along with the rest of the purebloods.

"Of course," Spademan grins. "I play Beater. Have been since Third Year. Are you hoping to join the Team next year?"

"Yes, I-" Malfoy clears his throat, tempering his excitement levels before continuing; "I want to be the Keeper. My Father taught me how to fly when I was seven, and I've been playing Quidditch since then. Who's the Captain?"

The smile slips off Spademan's face at Malfoy's question. "Arnold Shafiq is."

Clearly, the two of them aren't best mates.

"Johnson is our current Keeper, and he isn't graduating until another two years," he continues, seemingly waving the matter of Shafiq away. "So unless you're better than him, or try out for a different position, you'll either be on the reserve or have to wait another year. Any other Team hopefuls?" he inquires from the rest of us.

Avery, Rosier the Boy, and I all raise our hands.

"Truly?" Spademan's right brow hikes, and he seems to revaluate me in a slightly new light.

"But you don't even have your own broom!" Malfoy bursts out in shock. "And didn't even make it to the third obstacle course either!"

"Since when?" Tom demands. And do I detect a hint of hurt in his voice and expression?

And that's when I realize that I never told Tom about my plans for joining the Quidditch Team, for all the times that I've gushed about being able to fly on a broomstick, and that no one has actually sat me down to explain all of the rules so I shouldn't even technically know what Quidditch _is_ except for guesswork in context.

' _Fuck me.'_

"For a while." Feeling sheepish, I shrug my shoulders at Tom. "I overheard a couple of customers talking about it in the Leaky Cauldron, and thought it sounded fun," I lie even while guilt worms its way into me for it. "Sorry for not telling you sooner," I offer lamely.

"There's no way that they'll let someone like _you_ onto the Slytherin Team," Lestrange retorts.

"And why not?" I dare. _'I swear to God, if he says it's because I'm a mudblood or a girl-'_

"Quidditch is for _boys!"_ Rosier the Boy jumps in before Lestrange can answer, as if it's blasphemous otherwise.

I growl, my hands itching to-

"You better not let Professor Wood hear you say that," Spademan warns the boys lowly. "He might just bite your head off. Holly Egwu is his daughter, after all, and he's been over the moon lately because she's been accepted to play for the Port of Portree this year."

"How do you know?" Malfoy questions him curiously.

"I'm friends with his nephew," Spademan explains bluntly.

"I can _too_ play Quidditch if I so fucking choose," I snarl angrily at the boys, and I feel more than see Tom rest a restraining hand on my arm. "I'll become one of Slytherin's Chaser next year, just you fucking _watch me."_

The self-goal of I playing Quidditch might have started off as something innocent, as just the desire to try something new and exciting, but _oh-!_ Now, now, it's a _requirement._ I will become the _best damn_ Quidditch player Slytherin was ever seen, if only see the light leave those sexist, mini bastards' eyes.

Rosier and Lestrange simply scoffs at my declaration.

"We're here," Spademan informs suddenly, tearing us away from our argument.

I blink in mild surprise, finally realizing that we've stopped walking in front of a classroom.

"I've already spoken to Professor Slughorn about your detentions. Your first one with him be this Friday for seven thirty. Meet him here then. Will you lot be alright to walk to the Great Hall by yourselves?"

"Yes."

"Of course."

"Ah, there you lot are. I was wondering if perhaps the giant squid had gotten to you," Professor Slug chortles when we all enter and take our seats. "Thank you, Mr. Spademan, for escorting them," he smiles.

So far he's looking to be the youngest Professor, about mid-twenties, with voluminous short hair, a wide torso, and a bit of fat on his stomach. I estimate that he's taller than Professor Butler but not nearly as tall as Professor Wood.

"I'm only doing my duty, sir," Spademan dips his head respectfully. "If you'd excuse me, I ought to be heading to my own..."

"Of course, of course!" Professor Slughorn waves him off merrily. "Mustn't keep your Professor waiting, eh?"

And so without further ado Spademan takes his leave.

Professor Slughorn regards us First Years soberly, much less pleasantly than he was just a second ago. "Now, before the Hufflepuffs arrive, I have to say that I wasn't expecting to hear that not only did two of my newest snakes cause trouble in another class, cause Slytherin lose enough points do be in the negative, and earn detention, but that the majority of the rest _also_ lied about it. Can I trust that this won't be a repeat?"

"Yes. I apologize, Professor," Nott murmur with downcast eyes.

The others mumble agreements as well, although a lot less sincerely than Nott did.

The Professor nods sharply. "Good. I'm sure none of you wish to be doing any extra work or chores during the weekend. That being said, those that are having detention with me will meet me here at seven thirty this Friday for their first session."

After the Hufflepuffs join us and Professor Slughorn has given his cheery introduction -as well as giving a special greeting to those that have well-known relatives and asking for clarification for other relations- Professor Slughorn starts us off with safety rules.

Once everyone has copied from the black board, the Professor gets us to make the Cure for Boils with our desk mates.

As Tom is cutting and I start up the cauldrons, Tom asks icily; "Why did you lie?"

I pause, mind swirling. "What do you mean?" I force my expression to blank and to keep a neutral tone.

"Stop it," he grips as his chopping becomes harsher. "Just stop it, Dorothy. Do you honestly presume to be the only one of us that can tell when the other is lying? To their _face?"_

I bite my lip, but he doesn't wait for my response.

"We both know that you didn't learn about Quidditch -or whatever it's called- through the Leaky Cauldron. What I don't understand is why you didn't tell me about it during the summer, and why you felt the need to _lie_ about it." His dark eyes seem to bore into my very soul as he finally looks up, locking gazes with me. "Since when do we keep secrets from each other, Dorothy? Mm?"

Ah, goddammit. Guilt festers inside of me, giving me a lump in my throat, and I _loathe_ how heavy my heart is. Unable to avert my eyes, I can only swallow and demur; "I'm sorry, Tom. I honestly forgot that I hadn't told you about Quidditch and my plans to play. I guess I'm just so used to us knowing the same things, and being on the same page, that, well, I forgot our twin bond isn't _actually_ telepathic."

"But then why did you lie about it? Where did you _actually_ learn it?" His expression remains cold and unmoving, although I can still see the hurt and betrayal peeking through.

It makes me feel fucking worse. Especially when I know that I'm not ever going to stop lying about certain things, and what I have to do after class ends. "I, I guess I just...Panicked? I learned it in a book."

Tom continues to scrutinize me, searching for any type of deceit. Finally, he turns back to his hands and the task before him. "Tell me about Quidditch."

I don't delude myself into thinking that his words are a request, or that I'm completely forgiven yet. But I do explain everything that I remember of it. For the rest of the class though it's spent in awkward and stilted silence as we focus on our potions.

"Splendid work, Mr. Black!" Professor Slughorn beams when he checks over Black and Avery's station. "Just like you father, eh? Ah, but I think you put a little too much pestle in it, I'm afraid, Mr. Avery. Perhaps next class."

Next is us. He examines the right shade of the potion that's shown in the textbook, and gives us the same bright smile that he gave Black only a moment before. "Oh-ho-oh! It seems like we have _three_ new little potioneers in Slytherin this year! Excellent, excellent. Take ten points for Slytherin, each of you."

 _'That neutralizes what was taken in Herbology,'_ I muse as Tom preens under the Professor. And, all right, so I do I little. Praise and shite are always nice to hear, and I feel mighty proud for getting my first ever potion perfect.

Once Professor Slughorn has checked every student's work, and told them what they did wrong or offer small advise when necessary, he tells everyone to veil a sample in our names and put it in the front before cleaning up. Everyone is dismissed and heads off, chatting, when the period officially ends.

Everyone, but me.

I take in a deep breath to help calm my hammering heart, reminding myself that this _has_ to be done. Today. Right fucking now. No matter how much Tom will be angry at me afterwards.

"Dorothy?" Tom wonders, pausing at the doorway when he notices that I'm not right behind him.

"Is there something you need, Miss Riddle?" Professor Slughorn asks me curiously.

"Yeah. I-I-"

Tom tenses, glaring at me in warning to keep my trap shut. _'Don't you dare,'_ he seems to tell me. _'Don't you_ fucking dare _do what I think you're thinking!'_

I snap my eyes back to the Professor. "We can talk to snakes. Have been since as long as we can remember-"

 _"Dorothy!"_ Tom hisses in English, furious.

 **"Sorry,"** I respond in Parseltongue.

I hear the Professor inhale sharply at the sound, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

 **"Is this normal?"** I say first to show off, then repeat the question in English.

Like a light switch it turned, he asks almost breathlessly and with a greedy gleam in his eye: "And what did you say your mother's maiden name was, again?"

My stomach plummets, and with it my mouth becomes suddenly awfully dry. _'No, don't -this can't- don't say it-"_

"We don't know, sir," Tom says resentfully, observing his reactions closely. "We're orphans, see, and she never told Mrs. Coles before she died. We only know that her name is Merope, her father Marvolo, and that another relative of her's is Rionach."

_'No, wait -this isn't how-'_

"Well-" I can only watch on in sheer, overwhelming, undulated horror as Professor Slughorn's lips move, the words and noises slipping out of him "-Parseltongue, the ability to speak to snakes such as you described, is an _extremely_ rare ability that was only been seen, or at the every least historically documented, in Salazer Slytherin's heritage. And the last known descendants of Slytherin are the Gaunts."

_I can't breathe._

* * *

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA!

I have _zero_ regrets! (Although if anyone can tell how a chapter, that was originally going to be a 4-5k words, ended up being a whole whooping 11k it would be much appreciated. I personally don't have a clue.)

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think about Joseph Spademan?

 **2.** What do you think about the other individual First Year students?

 **3.** How do you suspect things are going to go next chapter?

 **4.** What was your favourite part(s)?

 **5.** What was your least favourite part(s)?

 **6.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **7.** Do you have any questions?


	8. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Hello" -Normal speech.

 **"Hello"** -Parseltongue.

 _'Hello'_ -Thoughts/Silent telepathic twin-speech.

 **Hello** -Writing.

* * *

_Dear Little Brother,_

_I love apple pie. I love the hot, sweet richness, the soft apples and cinnamon aftertaste, and the way it explodes in my mouth followed closely by the cooling sensation of vanilla ice cream._

_But even more than eating it, I love_ making _it._

 _My Mum and Dad were never family orientated folk. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if my siblings and I were all 'oopsie' babies. Some days I questioned -still do, really- why they got married in the first fucking place. Not because the house shook with loud arguments and things got smashed when they were thrown, I never had to hush Jacob or Nora lest we draw their attention, never had to step in front of them so that they wouldn't get hurt in expense of myself, but because they were never..._ There. Together.

_Both were hardly at the house. Mum was always up to her ears with acting roles, smiling wide and real for the cameras and living the demanding, materialistic, harsh, and rewarding life as a famous actress. She was happiest when all eyes were on her, most satisfied with full pockets and having praises and compliments showered upon her, and the most honest when she was pretending to be someone else. And when she wasn't on the stage or practicing her lines and roles, she was out with equally or lesser famous friends, usually coming home at least a little bit tipsy._

_Dad was a gallivanter. He detested being tied down, ironically enough, and hated staying in one place or being confined to one building even more so. He was out of the house even more than Mum was -only his outings took him to different countries and sometimes even continents. His exact job escapes me, but I remember he was always fascinated in different cultures and the like. Both the dead and the breathing._

_"There's always something new to learn, Olivia. Something new just waiting to be discovered," he would say with stars in his eyes._

_(Funny. For as Ravenclaw as he was, he was_ shite _at learning how to be a proper Dad.)_

_And when Mum and Dad were in the same room as each other, and in the presence of us unworthy children, they acted more like friends with benefits -or friendly business partners with sex on the side- than an actual married couple. But in the end they both seemed happy and content with their loose relationship._

_As a result Jacob, Nora, and I grew up in the care of numerous live-in-nannies. I think we had a total of five, our last being Grace, but when I was fifteen our parents decided I was old enough to take over. A few months after my birthday I was suddenly expected to make sure that my eight and ten years old siblings got ready for school, came home from school, help them with homework and other life problems, got to bed on time, nag at them to keep their rooms clean (the only thing the maid wasn't instructed to clean) discipline their arses if need be, manage their social lives outside of school hours, and overall make sure that they weren't getting into any shite and grew up to be successful, respectable adults._

_I never truly realized_ how fucking much _our nannies did for us until then, and felt sudden guilt over the times I gave them shite for petty things or our parents' absences, even if I did one thing less compared to them thanks to our cook. (Mum could only have the best, after all.) I ended up sending the five of them thank you/apology letters._

 _That all being said, Auntie Madison -our Dad's sister- is a force to be reckon with. She was_ very _adamant that Christmas was a time for family, and so every time Christmas rolled around the grandparents on Dad's side and our family would visit Auntie Madds's farm to celebrate. (Mum grew up and out of foster care, never having a biological nor adopted family of her own. It certainly explained a few things at any rate.)_

_The outside would be already decorated by the time we arrived, all pretty, glowing lights and fake reindeers and a blow-up Santa on the front lawn, but Auntie Madds would always leave the Christmas tree for my siblings and I to decorate. She was unable to have any kids herself, and the adoption agency wouldn't let her adopt without a husband for whatever fucking reason, so she always loved it when we would visit. It gave her the chance to be a mother, even if it was temporary._

_(I think it's one of the reasons why Auntie and Mum didn't like each other much. Auntie was jealous over Mum's fertility and bitter how Mum didn't appreciate the chance she was given, while Mum couldn't understand Auntie's lack of ambition and being content to run a "smelly, dirty" old farm that used to belong to Grandpa and Grandma.)_

_(Sometimes I wished Auntie Madds were our Mum instead.)_

_By far my favourite part was Pie Time. Because in Pie Time, a time where all the girls would gather in the kitchen and help make a shite ton of pies, more than even our group of eight could hope to consume over the Holiday, was also a time where differences and ill feelings towards each other was put aside. If I close my eyes I can still hear Nora's bell-like laughter ringing in the air, feel the dough or flour on my skin that Auntie would teasingly smear on all of us, taste the delicious samples that Grandma insisted that Nora and I try, and see Mum's genuine smile that I usually only saw on the other side of a screen._

_More than horse back riding, it was that time where I felt the most free, the most light, warm and fuzzy inside. The most loved. Most cherished._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 2nd, 1938.**

"What? Are you sure? Do you know them? Are they alive?" Tom explodes, right in front of Professor Slughorn and barely restraining himself from literally shaking the answers out of him.

This doesn't seem real. I watch as if I'm an outsider as Tom demands answers from the Professor, rooted in place and unable to move. But the blood pounding in my ears, and my heart thundering against my rib cage drowns out their voices. My feet tingles, like pins and needles and -and why is the world swaying from under me? Spinning, dizzyingly-

 _'I have to go.'_ Have to leave -get the hell away- the overwhelming desire to just _run_ and keep running is _suffocating_ and-

I choke, sobbing, and fall to a crouch. I have to go, have to get _away_ -why am I still here? Why can't I move?! The pain is too much, can't fucking _breathe_ , my throat is too small, too tight and I-I-

"Dorothy? Dorothy, what's wrong?"

Gotta go. Can't stay here. The room is too small. Enclosing. People are crowding, too close and _touching me_. I can't _move._ Oh, God, it _hurts so fucking much-_

"Miss Riddle, please calm down-"

 _'No!'_ Suddenly I spring up, and pushing them away I sprint out of the too small room.

But I can't run far. I barely make it out the stifling room before black dots dance before my eyes, and I gasp, desperate to _breathe,_ and I fall down again because my knees are too fucking weak and _everything won't stop spinning_. Why is the world spinning? Please, God, just _make it stop-_

"Dorothy! Dorothy, Dorothy...!"

"Miss Riddle, can you hear me-?"

 _'Shut up! Shut up, shut up -just_ shut the fuck up!' I want to scream it, yell it at the top of my lugs and rip their hands off of me, but it only comes out as a strangled sob and I choke on my salty tears before I can get the words out.

"Is there a nurse somewhere? A doctor?"

"A what?"

"A _doctor!_ Someone with medical knowledge that can help!"

"Ah, yes I-I -Madam Gladstone can -I'll fetch her- Mr. Riddle, you stay here with your sister-"

"Dorothy, try to cal-try to breathe. Come on, deep breathes, one, two, three..."

I can only shake my head helplessly. Another sob wrecks me, and I can't _stop._ My head is too light, my chest and throat too tight, his voice and presence too close. Everything is simply _too much. Too fucking much._

"Come on, Dorothy. Try breathing with me. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale...Exhale..."

It burns. Oh, how it _burns-_

**"You can do it. Easy now. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale...Exhale..."**

_'Make it stop. Please, make it stop.'_

**"Good job. Keep concentrating, Dorothy. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale..."**

He keeps murmuring things in my ear, praises and instructions, and rubbing my back. It helps somewhat, and even if I can't seem to stop weeping, my harsh, tiny gasps of air that I mange to steal becomes less labouring and the fierce pain in my chest lessens just a bit. At some point someone presses a cool glass bottle to my lips, and I greedily swallow. After that it gets a _lot_ fucking easier to take deep, proper breaths, my throat opens, and the pain completely but gradually disappears.

My tears dry, and that's when I notice that Tom has creased rubbing my back and is instead clutching me close with one arm. I relax the death grip on his other hand, something else I wasn't aware of before now.

"Miss Riddle, can you hear me?"

"Wha-Ah, I, um, yeah..." I blink tiredly at the middle-aged witch with square glasses crouching in front of me with a pinched, concerned expression. I clear my parched, sore throat, and the witch summons me a glass of water with a flick of her wand.

I take it with a mumbled "thank you," body sagging against Tom who shifts to support me.

Behind her, Professor Slughorn is _oozing_ awkwardness and wringing his hands.

Without turning around, the witch says; "Thank you, Professor. I can take it from here, although I would like a word with you later."

"Ah, yes, of course, Madam," he respond uselessly. "Do take care, Miss Riddle." He then slinks off, one last glance at us.

"Now, how do you feel, dear?" She asks me kindly.

"Like shite," I croak bluntly.

Tom snorts, while she _tsks_ with a disapproving look for my language.

"Yes, well, folk who undergo panic attacks do find themselves exhausted afterwards," she remarks dryly, moving a lock of hair that had escaped her tight bun behind her ears. "Do you often find yourself having panic attacks?" She asks, tone softening again.

I bite my lip. "...Not for several years. I think the last time I had one was when I was three? Four?" I can feel Tom's eyes burning a hole into my head. I glance back to see.

"Why don't I remember this?" He demands.

I shrug helplessly, feeling highly uncomfortable with all of this attention. "You were probably too young to. Like I said, last time I had one was when we were toddlers."

 _'But why do_ you _remember then?'_ He seems to question, visibly displeased.

However, before I can answer him -of course I'll remember it, even putting aside the fact that I am not my actual age, not mentally anyways, because I'm the one who fucking experienced them and that shite sticks with you- the older witch asks:

"And do you know what...Triggers these attacks?"

"The sun," I mumble, not really looking at her anymore.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that for me?"

"She said the sun," Tom cuts in. "She has Heliophobia. The irrational fear of the sun and sunlight," he adds in unnecessarily.

"It's not fucking _irrational,"_ I grumble mulishly. It's perfectly normal to be terrified shitless after dying of skin cancer, thank you very fucking much! (Not that anyone knows that titbit, though...)

She frowns mightily. "Language, Miss Riddle. But, as I understand it, you weren't outside at the time...?"

When I don't answer Tom does:

"Yes. We had Flying class previously, however she seemed normal throughout Potions...It wasn't until Professor Slughorn told us of our...Potential family that she freaked out. We're orphans, you see..."

She doesn't give us a look of pity like most do at our orphan status. Instead she prowls on; "What did you do during Flying class? And are you sure that the sun is you're only trigger, Miss Riddle?"

Honestly, do we have to do this _now?_ My eyelids are too heavy, my body too weak...I'm just too fucking tired and drained as a whole. I simply want to curl up in a bed and go to sleep. Pretend that this never happened, and that my plan went off without a hitch...Is that too much to ask for?

The older witch seems to see and understand my state. "Why don't we move this conversation to the Medical Wing, where it'll be much more comfortable and we can get some food in you?" She stands, offering me her wand.

The muscles in my stomach tighten and twist themselves into knots when I hear "Medical Wing," mind immediately jumping to the times when I had skin cancer. I can practically smell the stale cleaning supplies and taste of shite hospital food already. And as utterly _done_ and worn out as I am, those two words seem to spike whatever energy I have left.

"No," I tell her immediately, firmly, coldly. "You'll have to drag my _cold_ and _dead body_ there," I snarl when her expression hardens, pressing myself closer to Tom.

"Dorothy..." he warns me.

I look at him, and am taken aback at the pure determination glinting in his eyes and the set of his jaw. He looks as if he's preparing for war, and war is exactly what will happen. He may not know _why_ exactly, but he knows how much I loathe any kind of Hospitals and Clinics with every fibre of my being. (It's third on my Hate List.) It was proven at the time when we were six and I accidentally sprained my foot by landing wrong, via falling off a tree. Mrs. Coles and Tom did indeed drag me kicking and screaming to the local clinic, even with the sheer and unadulterated fiery pain present in my foot.

I'm not _scared_ of the Hospitals or Clinic. I'm _not._ They don't cause me to piss myself in fright like the blasted sun. I just _really_ don't like the demons and memories they dig up and force back on me.

I curl my upper lip at him in a sneer. _'I won't do it,'_ I glare. _'You can't make me!'_

His arms tighten around me. _'I will. Don't test me,'_ he returns with an arched brow.

"Miss Riddle, I'm sure you're very tired at the moment-"

"I can go back to the dormitory," I interrupt.

"It is also important to eat and drink something after-"

"I'll eat at dinner."

She inhales loudly after being rudely cut off for the second time. "Miss Riddle-"

I never get to learn what she says next, because I only have a second to register something pointy on the side of my head before I completely knock out.

* * *

**September 3rd, 1938.**

When I wake up the sun isn't even up yet; the sky is as pitch black as the night. At first I'm confused, but as I look around at the long room with multiple single beds and curtains around each of them, the fact that I'm in one of them, and the tall shelve full of potion bottles behind a locked glass plane, the only other sleeping occupant a few beds down whom looks as if death warmed over, everything comes back to me.

 _'The fucking prat knocked me out!'_ But how? We've never learned anything about _knocking people unconscious_ in any of the textbooks or in class- _'Flourish fucking Blotts. Of course. Seems like I'm not the only one that wasn't sharing everything during the summer...'_

But putting Tom's heartless betrayal to the side for now...:

 _'Let no good deed go unpunished,'_ I muse to myself darkly, bitterly, and just a little bit hysterically. Mirthless laughter bubbles out of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I take in a deep inhale, gripping the white sheets tightly.

Fucking _seriously._ I try to avoid -and _succeed_ at that- a situation where Tom kills someone in the books, only to dive head first into another one where he kills another fucking _three!_ (Everyone is capable of murder, given the right situation, even myself, and-and-)

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed!

I feel like I'm falling, sinking, drowning in the gnawing hollowness. Bit by bit it's devouring me greedily, leaving only something cold, helpless, and _angry_ behind. Because goddammit, I had _tired._ I tried _so fucking hard_ -and-and _this wasn't supposed to happen!_

 _('Why does it always happen to_ me?')

A strangled sob escapes my throat, an anguished, wounded sound that is far too familiar to my own ears for my taste, but I still can't stop my tears from pouring out no matter how much bitter hate is in my heart. Perhaps _because_ of the bitter hate in my heart. Not for Tom, not even for fucking _God -_ but for myself.

I can't seem to do anything right.

_('Why is it always me?')_

One job. I had _one fucking job,_ and I royally Fucked It Up.

 _('I tried so, so hard. I was only trying to_ _fucking_ help-')

 _('Can't do_ shite. _You ain't worth_ shite.')

 _('Please forgive me. I'm sorry. So, so_ _inconceivably sorry-')_

_('Should've stayed **d-e-a-d.')**_

I want my Dad. I want my Mum, Aunt, Grace - _someone_ to hold me close and tell me pretty lies. That it'll all work out. Please-

_('You already have one man's blood on your hands. What's three more?')_

I can still picture his face, the easy, relaxed _oh so trustworthy_ smile, hear his smooth and deep voice as it causes my hair to raise and alarm bells to blare loudly inside my mind. Can still taste the bitter and pure hatred on my tongue as I smiled back at him, eyes lingering on the steak knife laying between us, wondering which one of us has the faster reflexes-

_('I didn't have a choice-')_

**_('B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T-E._** _You_ liked _it. Purred at the very sight, didn't you? Was overflowing with vicious, vindictive delight, if I'm not mistaken. Grinned nastily ear to ear in unholy satisfaction, didn't you?_ DIDN'T YOU?')

It only took two words. Two simple, unassuming words for the bastard to bleed. To bleed, bleed, and keep bleeding until the life slowly left his eyes. I call Rebecca the Princess of Snitches, and if she is indeed the Princess then I'm the goddamn _Goddess-_

_('Twins should match. It's only right, after all. And now Tom going to share the same red, **b-l-o-o-d-y** hands as you. And it's all **y-o-u-r f-a-u-l-t.)**_

His death was on the news the next morning. Loud and clear for the world to know. I was taken in for questioning soon after. The police had knocked on my door and when I opened it, they informed me that I was to be interrogated for the murder of Samuel Whitelock. Why shouldn't they? Everyone and their dog knew, knew what Samuel had done to my little brother _-what he had gotten away with-_

Well. In the end, I suppose he didn't really get away with anything, did he?

And I couldn't even muster the urge to cry, even fake tears if only to win sympathy points -not when I was fighting the too wide grin threatening split my face in two, a grin that wouldn't look sane no matter what angle you looked at it at.

But despite their best efforts, the police couldn't find anything damning enough to truly arrest me and bring me to court. No one else suspected a thing, didn't think me _capable_ of that darkness, but Jacob -Jacob had taken one look at me, saw through my very soul with those striking, haunted green eyes of his, and _knew._ He knew without any words having to be spoken, and when he walked passed me he had whispered _"Thank you."_

_('So, so, sorry.')_

_('Always ruining your little brothers, aren't you? I guess it was lucky that Nora was born a girl. Or that you died before you could get to her as well.')_

_(So, so, sorry.')_

_('I'm sure Jacob is too.')_

_('I never meant to hurt him.')_

_('You never do.')_

I don't know how long I sit there, curled up into a ball and with my face buried in my knees, wishing the ground would swallow me whole or that I could simply _disappear_. But by the time that my eyes dry, they feel as heavy and the rest of my body as exhausted and utterly drained as I was before waking up.

I notice with detachment that the sun is just beginning to peak out now, so a few hours must have passed at least.

Mouth parched, I glance around and spot a glass of water, a handful of Deckers, a dessert tart, my red handbag on my nightstand, and a small letter beside them. I drown the lukewarm water and eat a piece of chocolate before I read the note:

** Dorothy, **

** Professor Slughorn has lent me a book on all of the Founders' family trees. I found a Marvolo, Merope, Morfin, and Rionach Gaunt, although Rionach was born in the 16th century. It doesn't say whether Morfin -our Uncle- is still alive however. Marvolo apparently died soon after being released from the wizarding prison.  **

** Get better soon so that we can talk, **

** Tom **

** (PS: We're allowed to keep Oscar and Aaron, two heads and all.) **

** (PPS: I'm still mad about that with you.) **

I should feel scared. I do, in fact, feel scared shitless. Dread settles in my stomach like heavy rocks, trying to drag me back down, down to that cold, hollow, and endless Pit of helplessness and desperation. My mouth is so awfully dry as I read and reread Tom's words.

But the key word here is 'try.' Because warmth and overwhelming affection bursts from my chest, that had felt so tight and painful only a few minutes ago, because he _cares._

(I wish my mind and heart would fucking pick _one thing_ to feel, because this mess of contrary emotions is too goddamn confusing!)

The note may seem curt and cold to anyone else, but I know my Tom. I can read between the lines. I can feel the concern that bleeds through every word. And while I don't doubt that he isn't upset about me telling Professor Slughorn about our Parseltongue ability, I also don't doubt that he isn't worried sick and fretting about my well being in his own way. He did give me an apple tart -probably the closet thing to a pie he could his hands on- and give up some of his favourite muggle candy, after all.

How many times has Tom been there for me? Has tried to protect me? All the little things he's done over the years to cheer me up, to help, to simply _be nice-?_

(When, in all of this plotting and memories of the books, did I fucking forget about _my_ Tom and all of his good qualities?)

 _'He's only eleven.'_ Has only been at Hogwarts and officially learning magic for a whole whooping _two days._ Book-Tom had five years of schooling, and in that time somehow learned about horcruxes and the Killing Curse. Book-Tom killed the Riddles in a fit of unhinged passion -he felt cut and betrayed to the core, after searching and hoping desperately for _years_ for someone to understand, to accept him, for them to be proud of him, but then they _rejected him-_ but this time Tom has _me._

It will hurt. It might even devastate him, but I will help him _understand._ Help him understand that he -that _we-_ don't need them, that Morfin is an uneducated fool, and that he is a prime example of when people become blind with their prejudice (not to mention the disgusting amount of incest). That Thomas Riddle, while a rich and vile man, is a _victim._ A _traumatized victim_ that has every right to loathe magic after what Merope did to him. And just like how a raped woman shouldn't be forced to take care of a child that was conceived in such a horrible, unforgivable way, neither should Thomas. It is not the child's -or our own fault- that the parent can't be there as a proper parent should, but _neither is it theirs._

Feeling slightly better, I slip out of the familiar (-too familiar, much too familiar-) white bed, put my shoes back on, and snatch my bag before padding out of the Hospital Wing, only looking back once with a disgusted sneer. I fucking _hate_ Hospitals. Nothin' but shitty news, they are. The heavy door closes harshly, causing me to wince, but thankfully no one comes to investigate.

I wish I knew a warming charm, of some kind, because the long corridors are bloody _freezing._ I wrap my arms around myself as I look around, trying to find my way. All of the portraits are sleeping, so they aren't going to be any help. I don't come across any patrolling Prefects or Professors either, or even fellow students skulking about. It makes sense, since it's what? Three in the morning at best? Too fucking early to be up, in any case.

Eventually I stumble upon the Great Hall, and from there I trace my memories back to the Slytherin dormitory. No one is sitting or sleeping in the common room, and as I quietly go into the boys' side and into Tom's room, no one else is either.

 _'Adorable,'_ I muse, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing and seeing how his dainty (yes, _dainty)_ hand is only an inch from his mouth, which is parted, and his messy hair. ' _He looks like a fucking angel.'_ I also spot the brother snakes curled up against him.

But as I slowly slip into the other side of him, Tom, as the light sleeper as he is, stirs.

"Dorothy?" Bleary-eyed, he turns to look, before snapping fully awake. "Dorothy! Are you-"

"I'm fine," I lie through my teeth, shushing and tugging him back down. "Just go back to sleep."

He frowns at me. "I-"

 _"Later,"_ I stress. "I just want to sleep right now."

He studies me closely with shrewd eyes for a minute, trying to see how important it is for him to wait or if he can keep pushing. He ends up huffing, settling down and wrapping his arms around my waist. He pulls me close and under his chin. "Fine, but we _are_ talking about it in the morning, Dorothy," he grumbles.

I only smile and close my eyes, clutching his nightshirt and feeling his warmth seep into me. Once again I'm reminded that this is _my_ Tom, and that _my_ Tom is _not_ book-Tom.

"...I missed you," Tom whispers after a few minutes.

"I love you too, Tommy."

* * *

"What is _she_ doing here?"

"I thought she was supposed to be in the Medical Wing? Surely the Healer didn't let her go this early-"

"...I can't believe that they actually sleep _with_ the bloody snake..."

"Ssh! You're going to wake them up if you keep being so loud!"

"So what if we do?"

Although groggy and still in limbo, the state of between sleeping and being awake, I still retain enough brainpower to be aware as I snuggle deeper into both the mattress and my human heater and pull the covers over my nose. **"Scare the shite out of them, please. But no biting,"** I order quietly.

**"Why?"**

**"I don't want to move, Speaker. Do it yourself."**

**"They'll stop bothering us if you do it."**

**"..."**

I smirk at the sound various yelps, curses, and something heavy -a person- falling over, followed closely by something else clanking. Against me, I feel Tom shake mutely as he buries his face in my wild mane, hugging me tighter.

"Riddle! Call it -them- off!" A rather shrill voice demands.

"Please!" someone else adds desperately.

The plea is what does it for Tom. (Little sadist always likes it when people plea and beg, especially those that had slighted one of us before. Although I guess I have shite room to talk -I am the one, after all, who had sick the brother snakes on them to begin with.) Still laying down, he twists himself to look over his shoulder. I peek over him to see as well. And what we see...Is _so_ fucking funny.

Most of them are pressed up against the furthest wall, wide, scared eyes never leaving the hissing and reared up brothers, but _Malfoy-_

Well, I don't how the hell he managed to climb a fourposter bed's pole, or how he's managing to stay perched at the tippy top, but somehow he _did_ and _is._

I can't hold back the giggles. Their _faces-!_

Tom studies the situation before him, and I can see the gears turning in the big head of his. He's trying to decide if the brownie points are worth losing the momentary amusement. They must be, because Tom tells Oscar and Aaron to "Stand down." Still, none of the boys are eager to get too close again even while they peel themselves off the wall, and Malfoy remains one with the pole until Lestrange starts jeering at him, in which Malfoy flushes, reluctantly sliding down, and tells him waspishly:

"Shut up, Reinhard. You were just as scared as I was!"

Tom slips out of bed and gathers his uniform to change in the bathroom. I realize with a start that I'm still in the clothes that I wore, and slept in, yesterday.

And in the light of recent discoveries, I can't bring myself to give a flying fuck about my wardrobe either.

Once properly dressed Tom takes my hand firmly, and without another glance or word to the others, leads me out. My good mood evaporates, and it is with great begrudgement that I follow. Tom quickly pulls me out of Slytherin's dormitory and finds an empty classroom. Once he's sure that no one is nearby he turns to me and crosses him arms, probably both to 'intimidate' me and because he doesn't know what else to do with them.

I find myself mirroring him, feeling more raw and vulnerable than I'd care to admit. Really, if the ground could just swallow me up and save me from this talk it would be vastly appreciated...

With pursed lips he stares, examining and calculating every inch of me. The heavy, tense silence drags on.

After what feels like an eternity I shift, breaking the staring contest by moving my gaze to my skirt. I curse myself to Hell and beyond, but I just _can't_ take this stifling silence anymore: "So...I can explain..."

"Please do," Tom says coolly.

 _'I'm such a filthy liar.'_ How can I possibly explain why I had a fucking _panic attack_ when Professor Slughorn suggested that we might be Gaunts? That is _not_ a normal reaction, no matter what bullshite excuse or lie I try to fabricate. It won't make sense no matter _what_ I say. Well, nothing but the truth that is.

But I'm taking those particular secrets to my grave.

_('So, so sorry.')_

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat closes, tight, and I can't even _think_. I blink furiously, tipping my head up to keep the annoying tears at bay. I had thought that I didn't have any tears left to cry with, but apparently I was mistaken.

God, how did things blow up in my face so spectacularly again?

"Well?" Tom challenges with an arched brow, even while he shifts minutely, awkwardly, at the show of my traitorous tears. He's never been very good when I start crying.

For a second I consider letting myself brawl for the -what? Third time in two days-? (-in my defense these have been a _very_ _stressful_ couple of days-) but I _know_ that this isn't a conversation that Tom is just going to let go of. This isn't a situation where he's going to let me sweep it under the rug, tears or no tears.

"I..." my voice cracks, "I, well...I never thought that we would find our biological parents..." I can't bring myself to look him in the eye as I say this.

"But why did you have a _panic attack?"_ he presses. "I've done some research, and you don't normally act like other people with disorders. And you haven't had any major traumatic events in your life that could-"

A mirthless, hollow laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. No major traumatic events in my life, eh? No, there just _can't_ be any possible way that I, Dorothy Riddle, suffer from PTSD-!

I suck in a shaky breath, squeezing my eyes shut and clasping my equally trembling hands together. _'Breathe. Just breathe.'_

"Dorothy?" Tom questions me softly, stepping forward and taking both my hands in his warm ones.

I lean my forehead against his, trying to ground myself before speaking again: "I don't know what to say, Tom. I really don't. I just...It made me panic. I never thought we would get the chance" _('-Liar liar, pants on fire~!')_ "I don't _want_ to meet them."

"Why not?"

I chuckle again, with just as much humour as last time. "Why _would_ I? Tom, Merope fucking _gave you_ our father's _name._ Trust me, no woman would name their children after someone they didn't whole heartily love. And if she loved him, she would have told him about us before she died -if he wasn't dead before even she. Which means that our father _knew,_ but still didn't care enough to come. Why would I want to meet someone like that?"

He clamps tighter on my hands. "But what about _her_ side of the family, mm?"

I just shake my head, still not opening my eyes. "My earlier point still stands. Either she told them about us and they didn't care, weren't alive, or there's a good fucking reason why she _didn't_ tell them about us."

"But we can't know that for _certain,"_ he argues. "Dorothy, Professor Slughorn told me that we can send Morfin a letter, asking to meet him personally. He said he would talk to the Headmaster last night, so that he can visit Hogwarts directly. We can finally get the answers that we deserve. Surely you're at least a little bit curious?"

"Not really, no."

He sighs. "Not even over the fact that we're related to one of the Founders, Slytherin himself?"

"Nope." My lips twitch into a tiny smile, despite not feeling happy nor amused in the least.

"...They're both awed and terrified, you know?" he whispers anyways. "Our Housemates, I mean. That girl Lilith came over asking about you, and I told her that you suddenly became ill and had to stay overnight at the Medical Wing. And then the other boys asked me about the Founders' book, so I told them. Obviously they all wanted to see me talk in Parseltongue in person."

 _'Of course they fucking did. Who_ wouldn't?'

"Despite the apparent Gaunt's infamous poverty and...Refusal to attend Hogwarts, we can really use this to our advantage," he continues. "Avery, Black, Malfoy, and Rosier have already apologized of their own accord for their actions earlier."

I snort. "Let me guess, they apologized because of our ancestor and the fact that we can control snakes -not because they realized what they did was wrong, right?"

I feel him shrug. "They've recognized their error with messing with us, yes," he responds shamelessly. "However it was only a matter of time."

We lapse into another round of silence, only this is one not quite as suffocating nor expectant as the one before. That is until Tom breaks it:

"Dorothy, _do you_ suffer from some sort of mental disorder?"

"Tom, I'm Heliophobic," I remind him dryly. "Can't step outside in the sun without being covered head to toe, remember?"

"Yes, but that has nothing to do with finding out about our biological family."

"I don't know what to tell you, Tommy, I honestly don't," I repeat tiredly with a sigh. "I just fucking panicked. To the extreme."

"Are you going to panic like that again when we meet Morfin?" he questions me cautiously.

I pause. "I don't know." I sure hell hope not. Panic attacks are _not_ fun, let me tell you. But, hey, maybe Morfin will suddenly undergo a tragic accident and we'll never get the chance to meet him or find out about the other Riddles! (A girl can only hope.)

"I'll find out what's wrong with you, Dorothy. I swear it," he vows soberly, quietly with a squeeze of my hands. "I'll find out and help you." Louder, he adds, "We should head to the Great Hall. I'm sure that breakfast is almost finished by now."

"...Yeah..." I swallow the lump in my throat and trail after him.

_'Why must I have such a headstrong and unrelenting twin?'_

Once at the Great Hall Tom and I move to take our seats at the far end of the table, but before we can go far a group of older kids -among them, I notice, is Spademan- calls us forward:

"Oi, Riddle!" a tall Fifth Year boy with dirty blonde hair, dark blue eyes and a crooked nose gestures for us to come forward. The smile he gives us when we pause is rather...Ominous. "Come sit here -Leo, make room for them, would you?"

A bald, muscular Seventh Year boy with an unfortunate amount of zits grumbles but does as told, shuffling down and forcing others beside him to do the same.

Tom and I share a glance before cautiously squeezing in, I next to the Fifth Year and Tom by Leo. As I take in the wide verity of breakfast food before me, my stomach grows loudly and I realize that I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. A grave error that's about to be fixed.

"My name is Arnold Shafiq-"

"The Quidditch Captain?" I perk up, cutting his introduction off before I can stop myself.

But he doesn't take offense, and instead his smile widens. "Heard of me already, have you?" He sounds awfully pleased and smug about it.

"Spademan told me," I explain, glancing at said man. "I actually want to join the Team next year-"

Shafiq laughs, loudly and sharply. "Good one," he snorts and slaps the table, as if I had told the joke of the century. The others look to Shafiq and are prompted to do the same, either chuckling or smiling along. Although I notice that Spademan is the sole exception, staring at Shafig with something akin to resentment.

Interesting.

 _'So, Shafiq is one of_ those _shitheads.'_ Narrowing my eyes and with a fire lit inside of me, I wait for him and the others to calm down. "It's not a fucking joke," I inform him icily.

"Oooh, little Firstie is _so tough,_ she _swears_ ," The other Seventh Year boy sitting beside Spademan, a short and skinny one with a small, low ponytail and freckles jeers.

"Little Firstie isn't afraid of shoving your wand up your arse either," I sneer back, eyeing his small frame up and down pointedly. _'He's most likely the Seeker. Built for speed, but nothing else.'_ I could take him. Just one good hit in the jewels, or a mean left hook...

Leo barks out in laughter. "You, I like you," he grins at me.

"I'm sorry, but while you know of us I'm afraid we don't know who all of you are?" Tom butts in, probably trying to defuse the brewing fight I intend to finish.

The 'friendly' smile has been wiped off Shafiq's face, and he now regards us coolly. "How could I forget?" He drawls. "These are my mates; Leo Parkinson the Beater, Damon Kings is Seeker" -he gestures the Seventh Year that jeered- "Richard Johnson our Keeper" -a tanned, mean-looking and wide shouldered dude with glasses and crazy hair on Parkinson's other side- "And then Eddy Rowle and Adolph Burke, my fellow Chasers" -a Fourth Year with tanner skin than Johnson, high cheek bones and big ears and a heavier but strong muscled Sixth Year with mild acne and slanted hazel eyes respectfully.

He does not mention or even glance at Spademan.

"It's _Edward,"_ Rowle grumbles.

Shafiq simply waves him off. "And lastly but least, we have my beautiful fiancé, Esme Yaxley," He winks at the Sixth Year girl on on his other side, whom has soft, curly light hair with fair skin, a slender neck, and greyish/blue hues.

Yaxley giggles at him, covering her mouth with a dainty hand. To us she says slyly, "A pleasure to meet the two of you. I must say, I don't think I've seen any First Year being allowed to sit with the Team before. But I'm sure everyone is simply _dying_ to know...Is it true that you're long lost Gaunts? The other First Years have been making quite the ruckus about it this morning."

 _'Of fucking course. The rumour mill certainly works fast,'_ I think to myself sourly, despite expecting and counting on this very fact earlier.

Tom sits a little straighter at her words, and the words he uses is both chosen and spoken with care; "Professor Slughorn believes so, yes. He's also lent me a book on the Founders' families, and I have personally found the two names that our mother gave us in the Gaunt family line, and her own of course."

"What's the book called?" Yaxley questions the same time Parkinson asks:

"Which names?"

"It was _The Legacy of the Four Founders,_ and I found Marvolo, Merope, and Rionach in it," he answers them both. "Professor Slughorn said he would speak to the Headmaster about inviting Morfin -our mother's brother- over to Hogwarts for an official meet," he adds, eager to prove himself.

"How did the Professor acquire _that?"_ Yaxley murmurs to herself.

"I hear that the Gaunts are dirt poor, though. Isn't that right, Arnold?" Burke comments.

Everyone looks to Shafiq. And if it wasn't already clear that he's the leader both _on_ the field and _off_ the field, it sure is now.

"That's right," he nods in agreement. "Poor enough that they can't even afford to attend Hogwarts for generations!" he adds cuttingly with a mean little twist of his lips at Tom and I.

A couple of the others, including Yaxley, snicker. The tips of Tom's ears burn, and his face blanks in a way to hide his true emotions. I myself feel anxiety slowly crawling, digging its sharp claws into me for the simple fact that we're discussing people I'd rather never know of.

"Even if they are poor," Tom responds with forced indifference, "Hogwarts has a fund. Therefore I would assume they either choose to attend another school or home school themselves."

"I don't know _why_ they would attend another school. Hogwarts is the best, and who would pass up the opportunity to brag about being the Heir of Slytherin?" Shafiq snorts.

Rowle nods his head. "Yeah, but then there is Durmstrang," he allows. "I can see the appeal of that one, seeing as they don't let mudbloods in-" Rowle doesn't get to finish his sentence, what with his plate full of food snapping up to smack him square in the face.

I hide my directed, curled finger underneath the table. Tom snatches my wrist and clenches it, nails biting into my skin in warning.

There's a second of stunned silence, until the damn is broken by the table's -not just our group of ten- peels of amusement.

"Who did that!?" Rowle roars, bolting up and glaring furiously at his wide audience.

"I knew you liked your eggs, Rowle, but I didn't think you liked it that much!" Someone else down the table guffaws.

"Carrow, you bastard, I'll-"

"Oi, oi, I didn't do it!" Carrow holds his hands up in surrender, grinning cheekily, when Rowle points his wand at him. "But I wish to congratulate whoever did!"

"Edward, save it for later. You're attracting the Professors' attention," Spademan commands harshly.

 _"I'm_ attracting attention-!?" Rowle starts, snarling.

"Sit _down_ ," Shafiq orders sharply, also peeking at the head table where it looks like Professor Slughorn is preparing himself to interfere.

Still looking to kill someone, Rowle stiffly sits back down. "When I find out who did it..." he leaves the threat hanging, wiping away the _eggscellent_ mess left on his face.

I imagine it's going to take a long while, especially with so many people, but I'm certain that eventually I'll be able to condition my fellow Slytherins correctly. I force down my smirk to the best of my abilities, but based on the squeeze via Tom I don't believe I'm entirely successful.

Eh, whatever.

Professor Slughorn still comes down to us, and with a critical eye asks; "Is everything alright here?"

"Everything is fine, Professor," Shafiq smiles grandly before Spademan can speak. "Just an ill timed prank among friends, right?" he directs the last bit to the others.

The majority agrees, although Rowle continues to fume.

"Yes, well," seeming put out, the Professor lets the matter be. "Miss Riddle, how are you feeling this morning?" he turns to me.

"Fine," I reply.

"Professor, have you had a word with the Headmaster yet-?" Tom inquires.

"Ah, yes!" much more cheerily, he smiles upon us. "Professor Dippet would like an audience with the two of you after lessons, in fact. Have you found the book helpful, Mr. Riddle?"

 _'Oh joy!'_ I think to myself sarcastically, scathingly. Really, that every reincarnated, future-knowing soul wants to hear. _'Fuck you, God. Couldn't even give me a single day to sort myself out, could you? Sadistic arsehole.'_

"I have, thank you, sir," Tom dips his head. "Would you mind terribly if I held onto it for a bit longer?"

"Of course not, just make sure that you return it by the weekend, eh? It's a very valuable book, and it wasn't easy to get my hands on it."

"Of course," Tom agrees.

"Right, well, if you lot have everything sorted here..." he leaves us be.

But the Team plus Yaxley aren't done with us yet. As soon as Professor Slughorn is out of earshot Kings lean forward says; "I don't think I quite believe that you two are _honestly_ related to Salazer Slytherin himself. You ought to prove it."

Tom narrows his eyes at Kings, all but grounding his teeth together. "Oh?" he challenges tightly. **"And you look like a rat. Perhaps Oscar and Aaron will find you tasty."**

I choke.

Tom smirks at me.

"Anyone can _hiss,"_ Kings scoffs. "No, if you want us to believe you..." he whips out his wand and points it at an empty space between two plates, and whispers _"Serpensortia."_

Out of no where a small garter snake appears, curled up and panicked. **"What? Two-leggers? Stay away!"**

"Damon!" Yaxley yelps. "What are you thinking?!"

"Hey-" Johnson flinches back.

 **"Calm down,"** Tom orders to garter snake.

The snake freezes, stopping its furious hissing, and slowly turns to him. **"Speaker? Did you summon me?"**

**"No, but come here nonetheless."**

People gasp when the garter snake slithers towards Tom and wraps around his forearm. Tom is puffed out as much as any proud peacock.

"Merlin..." Parkinson utters.

"So it's true," Yaxley states, eyes blown wide.

"Hey, hey, can you make it dance for us?" Burke asks eagerly.

Spademan Vanishes the snake, to the outcry of many.

"That's your deal?" Kings demands angrily.

"I'd rather Slytherin _not_ lose points when a Professor inevitably comes back because of _your_ foolish behaviour," Spademan declares primly.

"We were _fine,_ you bloody git," Rowle argues.

"No one likes a spoilsport, Spaddy," Shafiq adds. "And while _you_ might be scared of a measly garden snake, _the rest of us_ are more than capable of defending against such an animal."

Spademan remains unmoved.

Further drama is avoided when the owls come soaring down with mail. I scarf down the rest of my delicious food, and when my plate is sparkling I reach over to nab the last bacon on Tom's plate, only to have my hand smacked by Tom's fork.

"Ow!" I shoot him a dirty look, cradling my abused hand close.

Unimpressed, he arches a brow. "Leave my food alone, you cow."

"But there isn't any more," I whine, gesturing to the empty plate where bacon once laid.

"That's not my problem," he sniffs haughtily. And because he's a prat, Tom takes a big bite of his bacon right in front of me, never breaking eye contact.

"You call me a cow, but _I_ wasn't the one who threw up from eating too much candy that time we found a large bag of it," I retort. We felt awfully lucky that day, finding the bag abandoned on the street. None of the goods were open either, so I thought it was safe for us to consume. We didn't feel so lucky when Tom threw up on our floor at the arse crack of dawn, I had to deal with a whiny and sick twin, and we both had to smell the stench of vomit even after it was cleaned up.

"We were _five_ ," Tom scowls. "And you ate just as much as I did!" _'And don't bring that up_ here,' he glowers.

I ignore his unspoken words. "Obviously not. _I_ never puked."

A snicker draws our attention away from our little spat, and onto Yaxley.

"Pardon, but you just remind me of my younger brothers," she waves it off. "They fight much like you two do. I have to ask, if you don't mind, who's older?"

_'"Pardon"? What are we, in the Victorian Era?'_

"It doesn't matter-" Irritated, Tom starts to insist but I talk over him:

"I am, by twenty three minutes."

"Wait," Kings interrupts, "Does that mean that the girl is technically the heir, and the boy is just a spare?"

Shafiq scoffs at the mere _idea_ , before Tom can work himself up. "Of course not, you dolt! When are girls ever the heirs? They don't carry the family name."

 _'Sexist bastard.'_ "I'm still the fucking _heiress_ , and Tom technically doesn't carry Slytherin's name either, but that doesn't mean we don't both have the right to the inheritances and shite," I point out hotly, insulted on behalf of women everywhere.

"What's left of it, anyways," Burke snorts, mumbling under his breathe.

"A lady shouldn't use such language," Yaxley scolds me.

"Good thing I don't give a shite, then," I return boldly, dismissively. "Anyone who has a problem with it can promptly kiss my arse!"

"The Professors won't just assign detentions, but will also take away plenty of points for that kind of attitude," Spademan warns me. "We're on a two year streak, and I can promise you that you won't be making _any_ friends if you're the reason why we lose the House Cup this year."

"Dorothy and I have deal. She won't cuss where Professors can hear," Tom assures them.

"There you two are!" Dorea Black exclaims, relieved and marching up to where we are with the other First Year trailing behind. She quirks a brow at Shafiq, analyzing the company that we're keeping.

"Looking as stunning as always, Dorea," Kings whistles, grinning and eyeing her form up and down appreciatively.

"That's _Black_ to you, Kings," she spurned, raising her chin a tad.

Kings leans forward with his arms folded on the table. "Then you can be _my_ Black Queen, eh?" he winks.

"Only in your maddest dreams," her upper lip curls with disgust. "Come on now," she commands Tom and I. "Let's get a move on before I become late to my own classes."

Sharing a glance, we both stand to follow.

"Oh -but before you go- Dorothy, was it? Well, you ought to know by now how important it is to only have the very best in Slytherin, especially with who represents our noble House, being a descendant yourself and all. The Quidditch Team can't look weak, which is why we simply can't have you join, you understand don't you?" Shafiq shoots me a nasty smile, simply oozing cockiness as he relaxes into his seat.

I bare my own teeth in return. "Oh, I would agree, but then we'd both be wrong." And just for good measure I give him the two fingered salute before turning on my heel and confidently striding away.

* * *

The following six hours are pure, fucking _torture._

The girls pounce on me as soon as they're able, and while Lilith asks me if I'm feeling better first and foremost with Barbara lurking in her shadow, Rosier and Nott demand see us speak in Parseltongue right away.

And unlike the Team, they are satisfied with simply hearing Tom and I hiss back and forth. After that, though, is a mixed of reactions. When the situation has sunk in, and the possible consequences that their past and future actions have, Nott pales comically and sheepishly apologizes for trying to get me in trouble yesterday.

"I didn't know you were an _heir_ -I thought you were a nobody!" she tries to excuse her behaviour away.

But then, of course, Rosier the Girl refuses to accept any fault on her part and still stubbornly insisted that she -and consequently the other purebloods- were better than us, because 'Riddle' isn't a magical name and so _surely_ we're less 'pure' than them. Not to mention the hand-me-down state of our robes. Like, what a _disgrace_ to the noble Slytherin name!

Lestrange is only too quick to jump onboard Rosier's ship.

And when she attempts to drag her brother into her argument, he just looks at her like a deer in the headlights, wide eyed and frozen, before hastily shaking his head and tries to distance himself as much as possible from her.

That only angers the poor Princess even more.

Meanwhile Avery and Black immediately, shamelessly chat Tom up, clearly attempting to worm their arses into Tom's good graces. I would be insulted that they don't do the same towards _me_ - _I'm_ the fucking one they tried to get in trouble, dammit- if I didn't know just how big the social gape between friends of the opposite gender can be during this age of their lives.

Similarity, Lilith and Nott are a constant buzzing in my ear, although I can tell that Lilith is genuinely wants to be my friend because she was just as friendly yesterday. She tells me that she's _so happy_ for Tom and I -how big of a shock finding my biological family is, and so fast too- and I know she truly means it, even while my gut knots itself and my chest tightens as my anxiety builds, slowly but surely drowning me.

(The one thing that Avery does say in regards to me, though, is how my wandless and nonverbal magic that I had pulled on Lestrange yesterday morning suddenly makes _so much sense_ now. Pea-sized wanker.)

Lastly, Malfoy, Lestrange, Barbara and the Rosier twins hang back and avoid direct interaction with Tom and I. I assume based on how Malfoy and Rosier shy away from catching my eye and their body language that more than anything, they feel embarrassed, their pride is wounded, and they're unsure on how to move forward. Compared to Lestrange and Rosier the Girl who keep shooting us hateful looks and snubbing the other purebloods for their 'betrayal,' whispering conspiring-like to each other.

Barbara? Well, I've come to learn that she's just painfully shy in nature.

Then there's the classes. Unlike yesterday I can't become invested in them. My heart isn't in the lecture, Dumbledore's introduction to both himself and his subject goes in one ear and out the other, and it shows. Couldn't turn my match into a needle for _shite_. Tom tries to help, of course, but my mind keeps wandering to the bloody meeting as dread sits like heavy rocks in my stomach. My eyes are constantly drawn to the clock on the wall, and time seems to become slower and slower with every check.

I don't know whether to be thankful or curse the clock to the high Heavens.

That being said, I'm not so distracted that I don't magic Lestrange and Rosier the Girl's chairs out from under them when they start jeering a bit too loud and for too long about my lack of powers in Transfiguration. Fucking snot nosed prats. Can't they see that I'm having a mid-life crisis here?

Charms with Professor Alwin -a stern and wrinkly old bat with grey hair, old fashioned, high collared robes and pointy hat with a purple feather- isn't much better. The Professor doesn't let us take our wand outs, much to the classroom's over all groans of disappointment, and instead makes us take notes for the entire period.

Professor Alwin actually reminds me of Mr Greyson, which is simply _fan-fucking-tastic._ (It's not.) And based one the sharp reprimand she gives me when she notices that I'm off in La-La land, as well as the five points she takes away for the same reason, I have in inkling that she and I will be getting along just as well as Mr. Greyson and I did.

After an unappetizing lunch -in which more and more Housemates, and even some other people from other Houses once they notice all of the commotion, demand to see our Parseltongue abilities in person, and with so much awed looks and positive attention, Tom is all too happy comply- is double DADA with the Hufflepuffs.

Professor Merrythought is a witch in her forties, with her chin length hair curled at the ends, a dark mid-calf length and high waisted skirt and blue blouse, and a rather eye-catching scar on her right ear. Much like Professor Alwin, she does not start us off with practising magic but studying our textbooks instead. Although she promises that wand-waving time will happen tomorrow, I feel restless the whole period and am continuously peeking at the time.

A fucking _eon_ passes until we're dismissed. Immediately Tom is hurling me onto my feet and leading me out with a firm hand on my arm. We pause when we see Black the Prefect waiting for us at the door.

"I'm here to lead you two to Headmaster Dippet's office," she explains.

 _'Makes sense. Even_ I _don't know where that is.'_

The others want to walk with us, of course, but Black the Prefect stands firm and orders the others to scat. Black the Boy even tries to play the family card, but to no avail.

And so Black the Prefect leads Tom and I, with Tom still gripping my arm securely. Probably to make sure that I don't try to make a break for it, which in all honesty is fair.

Me? Well, I just try not to throw up.

...I can't remember how exactly we get there. My mind is working too furiously, the rocks of dread sitting too heavily. All I know is that one second we're walking in the corridors, and the next we're standing in front of the entrance of the Headmaster's office.

"Good luck," Black whispers once she's given the password, and we move to climb the spiralling stairs.

Tom moves his hand down to my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, and I swallow the lump in my throat. I clutch my other hand around my skirt to control the shaking.

_'You can do this. Pull your big girl knickers on and stop being such a fucking baby.'_

"Ah, right on time," Headmaster Dippet, the old wizard, smiles upon us kindly. "Please, come sit," he gestures to the two seats in front of him and his large desk. Beside him is Professor Slughorn, and surprisingly so is Dumbledore. Although I guess it shouldn't be, since he is the Deputy.

An overwhelming desire to scratch the _happy_ expressions right off their goddamn faces fills me, but somehow I manage to control myself and robotically sit down with Tom.

"I imagine it was quite the shock to discover your family," Headmaster Dippet begins gently.

"It was," is all Tom says when it becomes evident that he's waiting for a response.

Headmaster Dippet nods. "All of us wish to help you in this time of need, which is why I've decided that, if you wish to, you can write a letter to Morfin Gaunt to purpose a meeting with him here at Hogwarts."

"What?" Both Tom and I blink in shock, but unlike me Tom is quick to regain control of his facial features and plasters on a charming smile.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Tom says graciously. "Would we have to do it now...?"

"No, no, of course not. I wouldn't want to rush you on this! Take all the time you need, and simply hand it to either one of us and we'll send it out on with Hogwart's official seal."

"Yeah, thanks," I force out, eyes glued to my shoes. "If that's all..." I attempt to stand, to get the _fuck out of here_ , but Tom pulls me back down.

"Actually, Headmaster, I was wondering if you knew why none of the Gaunts ever attended Hogwarts in the past? And If you knew any Riddle that may have?"

The Headmaster hums, musing on the questions, before shaking his head sadly. "I'm afraid you'll have to ask Mr. Gaunt. Neither do I recall having a Riddle for a student before you...Do you perhaps, Horce? Albus?"

"I'm terribly sorry, but no." Professor Slughorn truly looks apologetic of this fact.

"I'm afraid not."

A muscle in Tom's jaw jumps, and he takes in a calming breathe before standing. "I see. Thank you again, Professors, for this opportunity. If you don't mind we would like to get started on our letter right away."

"Oh, of course!" Professor Slughorn beams, and that itching desire to ruin his face grows. "Have a wonderful night, Mr. and Miss Riddle!"

"I'm not writing a fucking letter," I inform Tom once we're out of earshot.

"That's fine," he replies easily. "I'll do it."

Neither of us wanting to deal with people any longer, we end up in a old, unused classroom where Tom uses my pencil and paper to write out the rough draft of his letter. We spend a long time there, with Tom furiously writing and erasing as I try to read my Animagus textbook.

(I don't actually. Can't fucking concentrate, and I just end up reading and re-reading the same paragraphs over and over again.)

Two hours later, and with more time checks then I'd care to admit, Tom finally perfects his letter, and starts on his good letter with ink and parchment. Once that's done to his satisfaction, he passes it over to me to read.

I shake my head, pushing it back to him. "No, I don't want to see it."

"Are you sure?" Tom hesitates.

 _"Yes._ I, I just...Can't."

"Alright," Tom says cautiously, eyeing me as if I'm ticking bomb. "Let's get this to one of the Professors then."

A part of me regrets refusing, watching as Tom folds the damning letter neatly and puts it in his robe's pocket, but my tongue is like lead and I avert my gaze. The fleeting idea of snatching it and shredding it crosses my mind, but I squash it. It's too late now. Too fucking late.

_('So, so sorry.')_

_('Twins should match.')_

_('SHUT UP!')_

_('You ain't worth_ shite.')

When we hunt Professor Slughorn down in the Potion's classroom, after asking a few people if they've seen him, he seems surprised to see us again so soon. "Done already?" he wonders, taking the parchment from Tom. "You two certainly don't waste any time, do you?" he chortles.

_'I fucking wish Tom would.'_

"Do you know where the Gaunt residence is, sir?" Tom questions him curiously.

"No, but the owls will be able to find him, don't you worry," Professor Slughorn explains.

"But how?" Tom presses.

This puts the Professor out. "They simply...Follow the person's magical signature, I suppose. Perhaps you should ask Professor Dimsdale, the Care of Magical Creatures' Professor, for more details. He ought to know, or the library."

Not satisfied but willing to let it go for the moment, Tom says; "Alright. Dorothy and I ought to head for supper now. Would you like to walk with us, sir?"

"No, no, I got some work to do here. You two go and enjoy your meal," he waves him off. "But thank you, Mr. Riddle."

And so we leave.

Most of the corridors are empty during this time; almost everyone is sitting down and eating. But as I stand near the Great Hall's entrance, I find my feet rooted to the ground, unwilling to move further. I can hear the loud, boisterous talk from here, and I _know_ the moment we re-join with everyone again they'll swarm us like fucking vultures, just like they have been since this morning...

My own reluctance puts a sour taste in my mouth, and I hate how _scared_ I'm acting. After everything, this shite should be a fucking walk in the park! Yet, I'm still standing here like an utter idiot. All I want to do is find a giant rock to hide under. Is that too much to ask for?

"Dorothy?" Tom wonders softly, taking my hand in his. He stares at me long and deep, as if he does it hard enough the world's answers will simply come to him. "Do you want to wait here, and I'll grab us something to eat elsewhere?"

"Yes, please," I croak, relief beyond measure flooding me. _'Thank you.'_

He nods, squeezing my hand once before letting go. He disappears inside the Hall without another word and I move to lean against the stonewall, arms folded. A few minutes later he returns with two plates, and we find a wide, low windowsill to sit our scrawny arses down on.

For the longest of time neither of speaks. And when we're done eating I pull out my art supplies that I had stuffed in my bag at what feels like a lifetime ago, not because I'm inspired but just for something to _do._

I end up drawing, in great detail, my tombstone.

Tom sighs, long and tiredly, when he sees my morbid work. "What can I do to help, Dorothy?" he asks.

"Nothing" and "I'll be fine" is on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate and consider the question seriously. "...Bake an apple pie with me," I decide firmly.

"Bake an apple pie?" He echoes with raised brows.

"You heard me."

"And how are we going to do that?" He wonders.

"The food has to come from _somewhere,_ doesn't it?" I point out smartly.

"Alright," he allows. "I suppose we could ask one of the Prefects where the kitchen is."

We head towards the Slytherin dormitory, but as luck would have it we stumble upon the older Slytherin girl that had defended me against Rosier during the opening feast. We decide to try her first:

"Excuse me, but do you know where we could find the kitchen?" Tom asks her politely.

The girl pauses to regard us curiously. "Aren't you the Riddle twins everyone has been talking about? The long lost Gaunts?"

"Yes, and we would like to find the kitchens," Tom says.

I bite my lip. "It's for comfort," I mumble, if only to move things along. "Baking pies help me relax. I know it's ridiculous, but..."

The girl catches my eye, and she must glimpse at my inner desperation and anxiety because her expression softens a smudge. "There's a door by the entrance hall that will lead to a basement. There, you'll see a painting of a green pear. You must tickle it to in the kitchen," she sighs. She then narrows her eyes at us. "There's only two hours before curfew, so don't let yourselves get caught by any authority, alright? And you owe me one for this."

"Of course," Tom responds with a charming smile. "Thank you...?"

"Evelyn Reed," she supplies.

"Evelyn Reed," Tom finishes.

"Thank you," I tell her with a sincere smile, and Tom and I go without further ado.

We later have to ask an older Ravenclaw for directions to the entrance hall, much to Tom's macho-self's displeasure, but in the end we do find it, and try a couple doors before we find one that leads downstairs.

Although before we find the pear picture, we cross paths with a Third Year Hufflepuff boy.

"What are you two Slytherins doing down here?" He questions rudely, eyeing us suspiciously.

Tom bristles at the boy's tone. Nonetheless, he doesn't raise his voice as he says (rather bratily); "We could ask _you_ the same thing."

"We're looking for the kitchens," I add, when the boy tries to speak again.

Tom shoots me an annoyed look, but the other boy deflates, turning sheepish.

"Oh, right, -I- sorry about that. I'll just go..." he fumbles before scurrying off with his tail between his legs.

With thin lips Tom watches him go. I can see the gears turning in his head.

"Reckoning the Hufflepuff dormitory is down here too?" I guess.

Tom nods. "Either that or he's hiding something else down here that he doesn't want discovered. The Slytherins, at the very least," he confirms. He then gives me cutting look, adding; "If you didn't interfere we could have known for certain, though."

I shrug my shoulders, plainly not giving a fuck because I already _do_ know where the Hufflepuff's entrance is.

"Let's just go," Tom grabs my hand, tugging, and sighs frustratingly. "We can investigate later."

With the way his eye glints with curiosity, I know that we _will_ be investigating that later. Tom has always been a type of person that needs to know everything _-especially_ if it's potential blackmail material.

We find the giant pear painting without any more trouble, and when I trickle it a door handle does indeed appear. Even with reading the _Harry Potter_ books, though, nothing could prepare me for when we enter.

The room is even bigger than the Great Hall. It has four long tables identical to the ones above, both in style and placement, but the rest of the place is taken up by the actual kitchen area, floating food and dishes, and hundreds of bustling, chattering House Elves. We hardly have a foot inside before _at least_ eight of them pounce on us.

"A new Miss and Mister!"

"Is Miss and Mister hungry?"

"How can Sooty be helping the young Mister and Miss?"

"Would Miss and Mister be wanting some cookies?"

I can only blink and stare dumbfounded as I'm bombarded with dozens of questions at once, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies shoved in my face. "Ah..."

"Quiet!" Tom snaps, irritated.

 _All_ of the House Elves in the kitchen suddenly fall silent and stare, not just the ones in front of us. Tom is taken back slightly from this, but clears his throat and continues:

"Dorothy and I would like to bake an apple pie. If it's not too much trouble."

The one that called themselves "Sooty" perks up. "Sooty can bake an apple pie for Mister and Miss!"

"No, _we_ want to make it," I correct hastily. "Please," I add.

More than one of the House Elves widens their eyes in shock, and hurt. Sooty in particular has tears swelling up in her big eyes. "Miss and Mister is wanting to bake for themselves? Miss and Mister not happy with Sooty's baking?" she -he?- wails.

Tom takes a generous step back as Sooty truly begins crying, clutching and ripping their ears.

"Woh-! Wait, hold on!" I step forward and gently try to peel Sooty's fingers away from their abused ears _('-I really ought to find out Sooty's gender-')._ "That's not it! It's just, just that baking helps me feel better..." _'God, why does my own shitty water works have to start too?! I hate being a sympathetic crier...'_

 _"_ Oh, Miss shouldn't be crying!" One of the other House Elves says worriedly.

Yeah, you think I want to be!? Fucking only gets worse the more I try to stop it...

"I'm fine," I say and wipe away my stray tears, feeling just as annoyed as Tom was earlier. "Look, Sooty, I'm sure you're a wonderful cook, but this is something _I_ have to do, you understand? It has nothing to do with you. If you want, maybe you can cook something else for us?"

"Miss be meaning it?" Sniffing, Sooty looks up to me imploringly-like with those big, watery eyes.

"Yeah." I put a reassuring hand on their tiny, bony shoulder.

And just like that, Sooty makes a complete one-eighty and beams. "Sooty be making a special treat for young Miss and Mister right away then!" Then they just...Bounce away.

I'm still reeling from the exchange as I watch the now chipper Sooty skip away. _'Did I...Did I just get guilt tripped by a fucking Elf?'_ "What the hell..." I murmur in a slight daze. What the actual hell.

Tom clears his throat again. "If someone could show us where the ingredients and recipes are..."

An elderly Elf, who introduces himself -I assume he's a guy, based on the deep voice- as Kelberly, shows us to an empty station for us to use, and floats the ingredients and a recipe over. I thank him and he slinks off to do whatever.

Already, with the recipe sheet in my hands, I feel the knot of anxiety in my chest loosen. I ignore the numerous, curious gazes on our backs as I start to make the dough and Tom preps the apples. I allow the smell of fresh apples to fill my nose, and lose myself in the feel of the flour between my fingers.

I smile. Not widely, but freely. The same warm, fuzzy feeling that I used to get years ago blooms within me, and I realize just how much I _missed_ this.

"Thank you," I whisper to Tom, my voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime," he promises me resolutely.

And when we're finished, when I pull the golden crusted pie out of the oven and cut each of us a slice, and when the sweet flavour explodes on my tongue, I know it's the best damn apple pie I've ever made.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think went down with Samuel Whitelock, and what he did to Jacob? Do you think Dorothy was the one to kill him?

 **2.** How do you think things are doing to play out when Tom officially meets Morfin? What do you _hope_ will happen?

 **3.** If you have any experiences with panic attacks, do you think I wrote Dorothy's realistically?

 **4.** What was your favourite part?

 **5.** What was your least favourite part?

 **6.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **7.** Do you have any questions?


	9. The Taste Of Freedom

"Hello" -Normal speech.

 **"Hello"** -Parseltongue.

 _'Hello'_ -Thoughts/Silent telepathic twin-speech.

 **Hello** -Writing.

* * *

_Dear Little Brother,_

_Freedom tastes like flies in your mouth._

_Well, that's what my Grandpa always told me anyways. I made a face when he first bestowed this 'wisdom' onto me when I was six years old, and to this day I_ still _make a face when I remember it. Dear old Grandpa lost one too many marbles in his age..._

 _In any case, while I don't know what freedom_ tastes like, _I reckon it feels like the wind blowing in your hair (-out of your face, that's an important detail-) the leather straps of reins in your hands, and the powerful muscles of a horse beneath you._

_My Mum could never completely understand why I loved visiting Auntie Madds's farm so much. Dad was a little bit better, having been raised on that very same farm, but even he liked his visits spaced. No more than thrice a year, one for Easter, one for Thanksgiving, and one for Christmas._

_And while I could have certainly done without the chores Auntie Madds would assign Jacob, Nora, and I, we all adored Auntie's horses. She had two of them, both male; a young, hyperactive Morgan horse named Chase, and an older and more gentle Mustang named Adrian due to his strange love of swimming._

_(I had laughed_ so fucking hard _when the very first time little Nora rode without anyone holding onto her from either behind or on the sides, she slipped off and landed right into a mud puddle. Nora was not at all amused, and had refused to ride again for the rest of the trip.)_

_The three of us usually rode with Adrien, him being a gentle soul and all. But as Chase got older and properly broken in, and when my siblings and I proved our competency with horseback riding, Auntie Madds eventually allowed us to ride Chase by ourselves. As we got older Jacob and I would have races, I on Chase and him on Adrien for safety reasons._

_Jacob would always accuse me of 'cheating' when I would win because I got the younger, faster horse, while he got the old man of the two. He wasn't entirely wrong._

_I miss those times so fucking much. I miss Jacob's pouting and bratty behaviour when he lost, I miss Nora's whining and complaining to stop being selfish and let_ her _have a turn on a horse already. I even miss having to help clean out the horses stalls, believe it or not._

_Someday I hope to share the joys of horseback riding with you._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 5th, 1938.**

"Tom, Tommy, my dear sweet twin," I clasp both his hands between my own, raising them as if in prayer and stare deep into his wary eyes, utterly and completely serious. "I love you to pieces. You are the light in my life. My other half. Truly, I would be lost without you. But I swear, if you don't stop walking on fucking eggshells around me, and keep treating me as if I'm about to shatter like a shite piece of glass, I will fucking shove my pencil so far up your nose you'll be seeing wood for _weeks."_

I didn't notice it all that much on the first day, being so stuck in my own head at the time, but since then I can see how Tom is so fucking _hesitant_ around me. Watching me like a hawk, never more than a solid foot away from me, always choosing his words with the upmost care -especially if the conversation is somehow linked to our blasted, bloody ancestry- and overall treating me like a ticking bomb about to blow up in his face any second now.

It's driving me up the fucking wall!

And, of course, his behaviour has been rubbing off on the others, so now the other First Years are acting very unsure around me. Well, excluding Lestrange and Rosier the Girl. Those two seem to be doing everything in their power to get under my skin. But honestly, compared to the others, Lestrange and Rosier is a breath of fresh air because of it.

Tom tugs his hands out of my grasp in order to cross his arms, scowling. "Well, what am I _supposed_ to do when _you_ don't even what triggered you?"

I scowl back. "I _did_ tell you -I didn't expect to find out about the Gaunts so soon!"

Speaking of, I have come to begrudgingly realize that Tom finding out about them _now_ might not entirely be the end of the world. That, in fact, this could be the best-case-scenario. I mean, the whole time Morfin will be here is going to be supervised, and if we end up visiting the Riddles as well after Morfin has spilled the beans, that will be supervised as well. Hardly giving Tom the chance to do whatever to them when we inevitably get rejected, and giving _me_ the chance to calm Tom down from his eventual rage fit.

This realization still does _shite_ for my nerves, waiting for Morfin's answering letter, though. Like, I know it's only been a day and a half, but still. Forget fucking cancer, _this_ is going to make me bald due to stress alone!

"And it's not as if that's all anyone can talk to us about, is it," Tom retorts dryly.

 _'Touché.'_ "Look, Tom," I sigh. "I promise you that I'm not suddenly going to have another panic attack. So, can you just...Act _normally?_ You're only stressing me out _more_ right now."

"Well, I can't promise you it'll be stress-free, but I can certainly take your mind off your family for a few hours a day," Spademan drawls, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, quirking a brow at how Tom and I jerk with surprise.

"How long have _you_ been lurking there, you creep?" I narrow my eyes at him. Tom and I chose this empty, unused classroom for a reason. It's nowhere near the dungeons, Great Hall, the library, the courtyard, of any of the known locations of the other dormitories. Nowhere frequented by other noisy students. No chance of being ambushed and forced to socialize with others.

Spademan flushes prettily at my accusation, straightening and coughing into his fist. "I wasn't _lurking -_ look, you two are surprisingly hard to find for two First Years."

And because I'm in a bitchy mood, I counter; "Maybe it's to avoid predatory older students like yourself."

Tom digs his sharp elbow into my ribs and I wince, swatting him away. _'Play nice,'_ he tries to order me silently. Prat is still obsessed with playing the perfect student for authority figures. At least to their faces, anyways.

Spademan works his jaw, as if he's chewing on a set choice of words, but ends up swallowing them with a forced exhale. With only a few strides of his longs legs, Spademan is in front of me and looking down at me rather intently.

"Can we help you, Spademan?" Tom wonders politely.

"Your sister can," he jerks his chin at me. "Tell me, Riddle, were you serious about joining the Quidditch Team?"

I straighten, a fluttering hope inside of me. "Yes," I answer cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"How serious?" Spademan presses instead.

"I want them on their fucking knees, begging for my forgiveness."

Spademan's answering grin is all gleaming teeth, not unlike how a shark would smile. "Then today is your lucky day, Riddle. Because it's about time that Shafiq got knocked off his golden pedestal, and I'm going to help you do it."

"Does that mean you're going to help me train?" My eyes widen smudge, that fluttering hope growing inside of me.

"That's exactly what I mean," he declares confidently. "So, tell me, how much experience do you have with flying and Quidditch?"

"Monday was my first time flying, and I've only read about Quidditch," I admit sheepishly.

But Spademan only nods as if he expected this. "Then be prepared to sweat and bleed, because we have years to make up for."

* * *

Despite Spademan's loaded words, we don't go crazy on the field. And we don't use the Quidditch field either, since the Ravenclaws are currently using it for tryouts. Instead Spademan takes us to a clearing with the Great Lake in view, only located down the hill from the clearing.

Spademan asks Professor Wood to borrow one of the brooms from the shed (after taking a detour to my dormitory so that I can mummify myself), and once learning about Spademan's plans on helping my skills, the Professor is only too happy to allow it. So long as we return it before supper.

Spademan mainly has me working on laps and weaving, and at gradual faster speeds when I get comfortable with the movement and shifts. I will admit that, while Spademan says that I have potential talent, I'm no Harry Potter. I can't fly and zoom about right off the bat, catching tiny balls flawlessly and in gasp-worthy manoeuvres.

Spademan is training me for the position of Seeker even though I think I would be a better Chaser, since no Chaser positions are going to open until two-four years, and he's dead set on me joining the Team _next September._ Plus I just don't have the right built for Beater. Not that I'm complaining, really, but I would have liked to be a Chaser a lot more. I have great eye-to-hand coronation if I do say so myself.

(As well as water skiing, I also played volleyball as Olivia. Neither Nora nor Jacob could understand why I liked playing competitive volleyball, since it can hurt one's inner arms and hands so much. But eventually you just get desensitized to the pain. Nora was the dancer in the family, belly-dancing to be specific, while Jacob would swim if forced to pick a sport. Mostly he preferred his video games to anything else.)

I itch to go higher, to _fly_ higher, but Spademan keeps me within twelve feet of the ground. Says he doesn't want our time to be held back if I fall and break something -like, bitch, you think bones can't be broken from less?

(I keep those thoughts to myself, however, lest he gets it into his mind to restrict me even further.)

Anyways, as I do laps and weave about, Spademan hovering nearby, Tom is sitting in the shade on the sidelines with his homework on his lap. We attract more than one curious gaze, half of them probably because I look as if I'm ready for either a blizzard or a sand storm, but as a whole not many people are outside in this corner of the school grounds.

As Spademan starts making me toss a deactivated snitch back and forth while I continue my laps and weaves, Tom asks him:

"Why have you decided to help Dorothy?"

"Because I want to prove Shafiq wrong," he answers shortly, eyes never leaving me and the snitch as he tosses it back.

"What did Shafiq do to annoy you so much?" Tom inquires, head titled cutely in curiosity.

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that your sister is going to _crush_ her competition come next year, and Shafiq will have no choice but to pick her." He doesn't seen willing to reveal more than that.

His confidence in me is empowering, truly music to my ears. But in all honesty... _'Even as a Prefect, the others listen to Shafiq over Spademan.'_ My guess is that years of not being listened to, to being second best, and perhaps even not being able to surpass Shafiq academically based on how obsessed Spademan is on proving him "wrong" has lead to resentment on Spademan's end. And if Spademan has given up on proving Shafiq wrong in other areas, this might feel like the last chance Spademan has to 'win' against Shafiq before they graduate.

All the more to my advantage, really.

When it's five thirty Spademan calls our mini session to a close, and so we gather our things and head off to the broomstick shed by the Quidditch field. As we walk Tom asks Spademan:

"Do you perhaps know of the legalistic of changing one's name?"

_'Wait, don't tell me-'_

"Are you wanting to change your last name to Gaunt?" Spademan presumes, regarding my brother curiously.

But Tom only tilts his chin, staring at Spademan expectantly without offering anything else.

When it becomes clear that Tom isn't going to answer, Spademan sighs. "I don't know much about the legalistic of changing your name," he confesses. "You'd be better off asking one of your pureblooded yearmates, or Professor Slughorn. He'd have contacts if you can't find help elsewhere."

"I see," Tom murmurs thoughtfully.

Meanwhile my own mind is working furiously. _'He saw first hand how the Gaunts are a laughing stock among the rich and bigoted. He would want to distance himself as much as possible from that reputation, so...'_ Of course. The only ancestor that is allowing us to climb the 'ranks' is Slytherin himself, so obviously Tom wants to change our muggle last name to that. It would only bring good things our way in his greedy eyes.

Do _I_ want to, though? There's absolutely no chance in hell that anyone is making me change my last name to fucking _Gaunt_ -I'm as disgusted by what I know of the family as Tom is, just for different reasons- but Slytherin? Mmm...

The name 'Slytherin' will instantly command respect by most of the wizarding population, and suspicion with a dash of fear among the rest...But then I _really_ couldn't give a flying fuck what the majority of others think of myself...Then again lots of doors will be open for us, and I'm not usually one to turn down an advantage in my favour...I'm not too terribly attached to the name 'Riddle,' but I've grown so used to it over the years, and it's a rather funny name...Plenty of opportunity for puns, but the same can also be said for Slytherin...

This is definitely something to ponder on in depth later.

(On a slightly different note, though, I highly doubt there's any inheritance left for Tom and I if the Gaunts were forced into poverty like they were. We'd be lucky to still have Slytherin's locket, seeing as Merope technically sold that heirloom.)

We return my broom to Professor Wood, and before separating to our different social circles Spademan informs me that our next practice will be after his own, Saturday after lunch.

"There you two are!" Lilith beams at us when she notices us coming closer. "I was beginning to wonder if you got lost," she jokes lightly.

"That would never happen with me around," Tom counters, scoffing at the perceived insult.

"It still wouldn't hurt to give all of us First Years maps of the bloody castle, though," I remark dryly. Like, Spademan and Black are nice and I certainly appreciate them helping us out and everything, but what about the other Houses? And we can still find ourselves lost after the first couple of weeks. The bloody castle is too damn big and complicated!

Curiously, Black and Avery shuffle apart as to sandwich us when we sit down, across the table from the girls. Even more curious was that Lestrange and Rosier the Girl were no where in sight, though they're quick enough to leave my mind when Avery asks us:

"So, where were you?"

"Doing homework," I lie only partly, smoothly, and start filling my plate. While any irritation on his part for having a Prefect help me with my flying might be pleasing, it's not worth the risk of him or any other sexist git trying to sabotage said lessons.

Rosier the Boy's face falls at the mention of homework. "The Potion's essay isn't due tomorrow, is it?" he asks nervously.

"Professor Slughorn only assigned it this morning!" Nott protests, but even she seems slightly fearful now.

"It's not due until Monday," Tom cuts in. Doesn't stop him from finishing it tonight, though.

"Oh, thank Merlin...I'm horrid at Potions," Rosier sighs.

"It's not even been a week," I point out, brows pinched together. Only three lessons if you count the double period as two. _'How can he already be so sure that he's shite at it?'_

Malfoy snorts into his drink. "Remember that time you made the table catch fire when we were nine?" Malfoy teases, grinning at the memory.

And now I feel stupid. Of course they had some schooling at home before attending Hogwarts. (Lucky bastards.) And they're probably all childhood friends to boot -they certainly act like it, and all refer to each other on first name bases.

Rosier flushes red, glaring at him and at Avery when he starts laughing. "Shut up! You weren't any help either, you now, you just ran away!" he retorts hotly.

"The table was on _fire!"_ Malfoy repeats defensively. "What was I supposed to do, just stand around and wait for to be burned alive like you?"

"Hey, let's not fight," Black butts in before it can escalate further. "There's no need to argue. And, Heston, I can help you with your essay if you want."

"Really?" Rosier asks him hopefully. "What do you want in return, then?"

"Your pack of sugar quills."

"How'd you know about those?" Rosier gaps.

Black doesn't respond verbally, but the impish look on his face speaks for him.

"...Fine," Rosier grumbles. "But I better get an O."

"Are you two already done, then?" Lilith asks Tom and I.

"Of course," Tom answers the same time as I say:

"Almost. I just have some last minute editing to do."

"I'm surrounded by swots," Avery bemoans while stabbing his veggies glumly.

"I'm not a _swot_ , perhaps _you're_ just a lazy idiot!" Nott snipes back, flicking her hair over her shoulder haughtily.

For a second I'm strongly reminded of Rosier the Girl.

"Am not! And you can find someone _else_ to carry your bloody things!"

"Are too! Your Mother was telling _my_ Mother that she wished you would work harder at your studies like everyone else!"

"I'm not stupid!"

"Are too!"

_"Am not!"_

"Well, _I'm_ not a swot-"

 _'Oh my God, have we really been lowered to pre-schoolers' level?'_ I share a wide-eyed look with Tom, who is even less impressed with our company than I am.

"How about we don't fight?" Lilith suggests hopefully. Beside her, Barbara is looking mightily uncomfortable as she watches the two go at it.

Neither Nott nor Avery listens to her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake-"

"Shut it!" Tom talks over me sharply, and the two prats turn to stare. "How old are you two, five?" he questions them scathingly.

I'm not all that surprised when they seem to shrink and wither under Tom's gaze, even if they'd known him for less than a week. He's always had an uncanny ability to shame anyone with enough contempt. Occasionally it even works on me! (Occasionally being the key word here, thank you very much. I ain't no pussy, but I can and do admit my fuck ups.)

"Sorry," Nott avoids direct eye contact with Tom and murmurs quietly, if a bit grudgingly.

"I'm not stupid," Avery grouses mulishly, but stonily turns back to his food and ignores everyone else for the rest of supper.

After supper people break apart to do their own thing, more or less. Nott supposedly goes looking for Rosier the Girl, Malfoy, Avery and Rosier the Boy say that they're going to go for a fly -inviting Tom and pointedly not me, to which I try not to let them see how that gets under my skin (I remind myself that I'll be serving their arses to them on a silver platter soon enough, I just have to be _patient)-_ but Tom politely declines, a not-so subtle glance towards the loner Black. Lastly Lilith and Barbara decide to check out the Great Lake to see the infamous Giant Squid for themselves. Lilith invites the _both of us_ to join them if we want, but once again Tom declines with a fake, charming smile.

Somehow, I already know what Tom is going to ask Black about.

Black blink at us when he notices the expectant atmosphere hanging over us. "Ah, do you need something?" Black asks unsurely, and then winces at his own blunt words. "Sorry, I just..."

"Actually, I _was_ wondering something," Tom eyes the other boy calculatingly, still with that practiced, 'disarming' smile of his.

(Honestly, I think the expression would fit a doll better. It's more off-putting than anything. Yet it seems to draw others in a false sense of security, so maybe it's just me...)

"Yes?" Black prompts curiously.

Tom leans forward slightly and turns his torso to face Black properly, tilting his chin so. "The Black family is a very old and prestigious one, correct?"

"Of course! It's the Most Ancient and Noble House. We've been around ever since the Middle Ages," Black straightens and informs Tom haughtily, as if insulted by the question.

Tom dips his head in acknowledgment. "Of course," he agrees easy.

I roll my eyes Heavenwards, sighing and resting my chin on my palm. _'Seriously?'_ Are we going to butter him up? Beat around the bush? Why can't Tom just spit it out-

I hiss when Tom sneakily pinches my thigh, warning me to be silent and let him do this. My irritation flares, and I narrow my eyes at the prat whom still only has eyes for Black. You know what? Just for that I'm going to-

"So you would know about the laws concerning one's last name, wouldn't you?"

...Whatever.

Black hesitates. "Are you wanting to change your name to Gaunt?" he wonders.

"No." Tom doesn't elaborate, and Black's eyes widen when realization clicks in his head.

"You're wanting to change it to Slytherin, aren't you?" he breathes, but then shakes his head sadly. "You can go for Gaunt, since it's your mother's maiden name, but Slytherin is too distant. You'd need to be adopted by a living Slytherin surnamed member, or at least given permission by the Head of the Most Ancient and Noble Slytherin House. But since Salazer's direct male line has long since died out..."

Tom's smile slips off and he clenches his jaw. "And how sure are you of this?" he challenges tensely.

"I learned about it in my House Studies." Black frowns. "There was this massive fight in the seventieth century when House Nott disowned a blood traitor, and she tried to claim other Noble names from distant relatives when House Black also disowned her. A law ended up being created so that a witch or wizard may only lay claim to two names; their birth and mother's maiden name. However even then they can become nameless if both families officially and magically disown them. But I can ask my Father for the book if you want?" he offers.

Intrigued, I butt in; "What's the difference between 'officially' and 'magically' disownment?"

Tom also waits for the answer, just as curious greedy for information as I am.

Black shifts, poorly hiding his feeling of being uncomfortable for this topic. (With his ratchet, shitty family, I don't blame him.) "Well, being 'officially' disowned means that you're cut off from any property, wealth, reputation, and inheritance from the main branch. However you are still able to own your last name -what I mean is that you can still introduce yourself as 'Dorothy Riddle.' Or in, um, your brother case his wife is also able to take the Riddle name. Simply put you and any children either of you have are not connected to your other direct relatives, or any other 'Riddle' family that disowned you. Legally, that is.

"Magical disownment is...So much _worse._ It requires a blood ritual, and if done correctly the Family Magic is _ripped out of you._ In most cases the person's core isn't able to recover, and they become a...A _squib._ And you aren't able to utter your old surname, either. You would be physically unable to introduce yourself as 'Riddle'." Black speaks in a low, hushed tone as he tells us this, eyes flickering around nervously, as if afraid that if anyone overhears they'll perform the ritual on _him._

Horror that _anyone_ would do that -take away someone's fucking _magic-_ (and what the hell is 'Family Magic' anyways?) causes bile to raises in my throat. "It that even fucking legal? That ritual?" I demand. _'Surely not! They don't even do that to fucking_ Azkaban _prisoners! Snap or take away their wands, sure, but_ rip the magic out of them?' I may have been a muggle in my past life, but even _I_ know that's way too fucking far!

"What's Family Magic?" Tom asks Black evenly, even though I can tell that's he's as disturbed at the notion of losing one's magic as I am.

Incredulous, Black stares at him. "How can you _not_ know what Family Magic is?"

Tom narrows his eyes, and Black is quick to backpedal. "Ah, I meant..."

"We were raised in an orphanage, remember?" I drawl out helpfully.

"Oh, right. My apologies...Um, I'm not sure how to describe Family Magic properly, but I could ask my Father to also send a book from my family library that explains it? Or I imagine the library here ought to suffice..." Black trails off awkwardly.

"That would be appreciated," Tom tries to plaster a smile back on, but it's obviously more forced than the last. He raises from the table and I follow suit, but before we leave Tom adds; "As thanks I'll help you with any school work of your choosing, be it spell work or an essay."

Black simply blinks owlishly at us, nodding almost absentmindedly.

 _'Library?'_ I question him silently with raised brows.

 _'Library,'_ Tom confirms with a nod.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think about the twins changing their last name, be it Slytherin or Gaunt?

 **2.** What was your favourite part?

 **3.** What was your least favourite part?

 **4.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **5.** Do you have any questions?


	10. Making An Ass Of Yourself

_Dear Little Brother,_

_People are little shites. Including kids._

_And you'd think that being rich, having a well-known actress as a mother, and normally being a happy, social butterfly would spare you from bullying. That in fact you might_ be _the bully if anything. But it doesn't. Save you from bullying, that is._

_I always had been a tall thing. The gap between my peers and I was especially large in elementary, where I was a solid head and a couple inches taller than my classmates._

_In short (haha) I stuck out as a sore thumb._

_Maybe they were secretly jealous. I don't fucking know, but when I had to change schools back when I was six it seemed like most of my classmates took an instant disliking of me. Specifically, a little bitch named Katie._

_And where Katie led, most of the female classmates followed._

_Katie and her group often compared me to a weed -seeing as I grew like one- and yeah, it seems like such a lame arse insult_ now, _but as a wee first grader? It fucking_ hurt.

 _The movies I watched and the picture books that I had read rarely ever had the leading girl be taller than the boy, and I had never overheard older guys comment how "cute"_ tall _girls were. No, 'cute' and 'pretty' had always been associated more to dainty, shorter girls. And so at that young age I had taken those words, those passing comments, and convinced myself that I wasn't cute or pretty because of my height. That I was ugly._

_More so, Katie had taken my abnormal height and -with twisted children logic- had persuaded everyone that I was held back a grade or two, therefore making me stupid. And trying to argue or prove that it wasn't true only made it worse, only backfired in the logistics that "that's what a failure would say."_

_Most of the teasing had taken place in the playground and otherwise where a teacher wasn't present, where they could outcast me socially by refusing to let me in their friends group without the teacher assigning me somewhere. Maybe the teachers could have helped me if I told them -I can’t remember if they were simply oblivious or honestly didn't give a fuck- but I never did for two reasons:_

_1) I was ashamed. I liked watching movies and shows where the characters went on grand adventures, where they were all so brave and saved the day. And going to school with Katie, under my classmates’ hateful eyes and dismissive gestures, I didn't feel brave at all. Cowardliness and shame for my behaviour sank its claws into me, squeezed my heart tight, and I was utterly helpless to it._

_2) Jamie, the little snot-nosed little shite that greatly enjoyed pulling pants down and flipping girl's skirts. Maybe his parents were friends with the principle or something, but either way whenever he did anything wrong, no matter how many times or severe, he only ever got a slap on the wrist. A ten minute time out at worst, and being held back from a recess at best. And the fact that his other male friends also thought it fucking hilarious and encouraged him -loudly- with every knicker flashed didn't help either. And because of my easily spotted height, and the other girls' disdain for me, I was an easy target and therefore the most frequent victim._

_I saw how the teachers dealt with -or, really_ didn't _deal with- Jamie, and that was the final nail in the coffin so to speak._

_My family moved again after second grade, and I never got bullied again like that in my new school, but by then the damage had already been done. It took me a couple more years to stop getting hurt and angry when people commented on my height, and until the early years of middle school to truly consider myself pretty, and not privately counter any compliments on my looks. (In actuality high school had boosted my self-esteem to newfound heights, but I digress.)_

_In the end, I discovered one or two things about bullies. Just like with Katie and Jamie, bullies get their pleasure from your reactions. They feel powerful and validated when you cry and turn away in shame. It's not fun for them unless they know you're hurting. And so the advice of "ignore them and they'll go away" might not always work, it still has some value._

_Moreover, though, I discovered that just like boggarts, your laughter is their kryptonite._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 6th, 1938.**

"Come on, Dorothy. You have to get up," Tom urges me, nudging my arm.

I groan and turn away from him.

 **"Must you leave?"** Aaron, my spiritual animal, also whines as his tongue licks my tummy and he squeezes my left thigh tighter under my nightgown.

 **"Stay,"** Oscar agrees sleepily. **"It is too cold without you Speakers."**

 **"Dorothy, don't make me get a glass of water,"** Tom threatens me lowly.

"I'm up, I'm up, you fucking parasite," I grumble and toss over the warm covers. The snake brothers hiss their displeasure and tighten around me, slowly slithering up so that their whole body is wrapped around my waist as I sit up. "What time is it?" I ask Tom -who is already out of bed and dressed- mid yawn.

"Time for you to get ready," he replies curtly before flouncing off to the bathroom.

He unfortunately closes the door before the pillow I hurl at him hits. Prat.

"It's seven forty," Black offers while fixing his tie whilst sitting on his bed.

I groan again, flopping back down on the bed. The brothers hiss at the sudden movement. **"Sorry,"** I mutter and raise on my elbows so that I'm not crushing them. _'Seriously? Seven fucking forty? Classes don't start until nine, and it takes me a total of ten minutes to change and be at the Great Hall! Couldn't have let me sleep in the extra twenty minutes...Or even ten...'_

"Thank you, _Black,"_ I say loudly, pointedly, for Tom to hear. I contemplate tucking back into bed, but I know Tom is serious about the water threat. Even if I am technically in _his_ bed.

Sighing, I force myself (along with my hitch hikers) up and out, dragging my feet to the dorm I share with the girls. I hate mornings. Once inside my room, I see that Lilith is already dressed, while Barbara is just rolling out of bed and Nott, my fellow sane person, is still snoring away. Rosier is nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, Dorothy!" Lilith greets me cheerily, ever the morning person.

"There's no such thing as a _good_ morning," I can't help but snark, opening my trunk and fishing for my other uniform pair. ' _I really ought to do something about this,'_ I muse as I hold up my dreaded plated skirt.

Barbara snorts. _Loudly._ And then gets all wide eyes and red in the face when Lilith and I stare in surprise.

She slaps a hand over her mouth and nose. "Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," I reassure her. "I _am_ pretty funny, aren't I?"

"Um, Dorothy..." Lilith starts, pointing at the snake brothers when I strip and begin pulling my white shirt and grey sleeveless sweater over top them, as if I could have forgotten them.

"I know. I won't tell anyone if you don't," I wink at the girls, causing Lilith to giggle and Barbara to smile secretly.

"Oh, wow, you really can't tell that they're there," Lilith comments, impressed, once I've put on my bulky black robe.

It's true; so long as they don't move, it only looks like I'm a bit fatter around the middle from an outsider's view. I suppose it helps that I'm a lot skinnier than normal kids my age.

"Are you going to keep doing it when we're older?" Barbara asks me curiously, peering closer to my form.

**"Yes."**

I snort at the snake brothers' response, ignoring the girls' minute flinch from the hissing. "We'll see how they grow, and how puberty changes me," I reply dryly. Now that I'm nearing the age, I often find myself switching between dreading and looking forward to it. It doesn't help that, unlike when I was Olivia, I haven't seen what my biological parents and grandparents look like, so I don't even have _guesses_ on what do expect.

Will I have curves? Will I be as straight as a stick? Am I late bloomer or will I forever stay as a midget? Will I be busty or not? Bum or nay? What are the periods like for the female family members? Nobody fucking knows!

 **"Speaker, we are hungry."** Oscar slithers up and peeks his and Aaron's head out of my collar from the back.

 **"Why don't you go and hunt, then?"** I raise my brows at him.

 **"You are warm. We require you to go and hunt for us,"** Aaron joins in.

 **"I am _not_ going to go hunt down some rats for you two. Do it yourself if you're so hungry, you lazy gits." **Honestly, do I look like their servant?

 **"We will scare the other two-leggers hatchlings for you,"** Oscar offers.

"What are they saying?" Lilith asks me eagerly.

"They want me to go hunting for them, but they are perfectly able to do it themselves," I respond pointedly. **"And they're already scared of you enough to not want to wake Tom and I up early,"** I add.

 **"We will also accept eggs. It does not have to be rats,"** Aaron says.

 _'How generous.'_ **"The answer's still no,"** I tell them bluntly. **"Not unless you can offer me something better.** Come on, let's go already," I gesture for the girls to follow me as I start to the door.

Barbara hesitates, glancing at the sleeping Nott. "Um, shouldn't we wake her...?"

 **"We can wake the two-legger,"** Aaron perks up.

 **"For a price,"** Oscar agrees.

**"I said no. Now get back under or else I'm leaving your cold-blooded, useless arses behind."**

They hiss their displeasure, but slink down nonetheless.

I glance at Nott, and then at Lilith and Barbara whom seem to be waiting for my move. _'Whatever,'_ I sigh. I concentrate on Nott's covers, imagining puppet strings attached to it and the tips of my outstretched fingers, before _yanking._ The covers immediately fly off Nott and shoot to my waiting hand.

I grin slightly at the girls' quiet gasp. Yes, I am quite brilliant, aren't I?

"Wha-?" Nott mumbles, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in confusion.

"Wicked! Can you teach me how to do that?" Lilith clasps her hands together, crowding me.

"Did you just do a wandless, nonverbal summoning charm?" Barbara stares at me with eyes blown wide, shocked.

Right, they wouldn't have seen me pull the rug out from under Lestrange, would they? Nor would they know for certain if I were responsible for Lestrange and Rosier the Girl's fall back in Transfiguration.

"Oh! So was that you in Transfiguration? When Lestrange and Rosier both fell off their chairs?" Lilith inquires, giggling at the memory.

I just smirk. "Okay, let's seriously go now before Tom figures out a way to get pass the dorm's snakes in a fit. You should hurry if you want breakfast," I add to the blinking Nott, before leaving the room without further ado with Lilith and Barbara on my heels.

(Just like in the Gryffindor Tower, boys aren't allowed on the girls' side. But instead of the stairs turning into slides -we don't have stairs, just long hallways- there are giant, stone snakes carved into the entrance arc that will come alive if a boy dares to come too close. Found that out on the fourth day, when Rosier the Boy tried to reach his twin. The older students in the common room had a great laugh. So did Tom and I, really, but Tom wasn't laughing when he found out that the stone snakes don't obey Parsletongue so he's in the same boat as the rest of the male population. The poor naive prat actually thought he would be an exception since he's Salazar's descent! Ha!)

"But seriously, you must teach me!" Lilith continues excitedly.

"There you are! What took you so long?" Tom demands, visibly annoyed with crossed arms, near the common room's entrance. "I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, you know. We won't have much time for breakfast at this point."

I get a feeling of deja vu, reflecting on our first day.

"Sorry, Dorothy was just showing us the-" Lilith glances at Barbara "-Summoning charm, was it?"

Barbara nods.

"Right, the summoning charm! Did you know she could do it wandless _and_ nonverbally?" Lilith gushes with, I shite you not, stars in her eyes. She flushes slightly at the Look that Tom gives her. "Oh, well, of course you did! You two are twins, after all..." she trails off awkwardly.

"Indeed," Tom drawls. "And can I assume you _can't_ perform the summoning charm wandlessly and nonverbally? Dorothy and I have been doing it since we were six."

I roll my eyes at him, and tug him in the direction of the exit, Lilith and Barbara following absent mindlessly. He knows damn well how difficult nonverbal -forget _wandless-_ magic can be, especially at our age, thanks to Tom the Bartender. And while we may have performed the charm accidentally at six, we didn't master it until seven or eight. The little shite.

"It's a Fourth Year spell," Barbara speaks up in Lilith's defence.

"Oh, wow. I've only managed accidental magic that way. Food would often blow up in my parents' faces when I was really little and didn't want to eat," Lilith confesses with a touch of embarrassment, but smiling and giggling all the same. "Or, there was one time where I fell off the railing, but just floated down. I scared my Mum half to death!"

"Oh, you should have seen Tom!" I guffaw. "Made a toy high up on a shelf fly and smack him square on the forehead, he did! He had a giant bruise for a week!"

"I did _not,"_ Tom nearly growls.

"Yes you did! I remember it as if it happened yesterday!" Of course, I had been concerned and consoled him during the time, as upset as he had been, but it's fucking _hilarious_ looking back now!

"Well, _I_ recall a sister of mine spitting out literal _mud_ when she tripped and face planted in a puddle of it when we were seven!" He retorts hotly.

"That has nothing to do with magic," I sniff.

"Did you really?" Lilith questions me, hiding her mouth behind a hand and highly amused.

"It was fucking slippery out, okay? And my hands had been occupied at the time," I sulk exaggeratedly.

"What about you, Barbs?" Lilith asks.

"Me? Oh, um, nothing special, really. The only time I remember doing accidental magic was at a family reunion, when I didn't want my older cousins to see me...I didn't realize I was truly invisible until my Dad looked straight at me and wondered where I was..." she admits sheepishly.

"I can see that happening," I muse.

"And you, Dorothy? What was your first accidental magic?" Lilith presses.

I try to think. There was plenty of times in which I tried to force my magic, once I knew which universe I got reincarnated into, but..."...Don't remember, actually," I admit. I can recall the first time I _succeeded_ in doing magic, after countless hours of deep concentration, but _accidental?_ No.

 _'Yet you remember mine,'_ Tom seems to say, giving me a flat, unimpressed look.

I shrug helplessly.

We make it to the Great Hall, where all of the other Firsties are. Well, except for Nott of course. We sit down in our usual spot between Black and Avery and pile our plates with food -and I, of course, take plenty of yummy bacon.

"Hey, Abraxas, did you see-"

I eye Rosier the Girl, whom is sitting across from me and who is awfully, uncharacteristically quiet this morning. Usually she has at least _one_ cutting remark to make about me, be it my blood, appearance, or magical powers. Or at the every least an indirect insult towards Tom and I while in a loud and pointed conversation with another pureblood.

But she only makes eye contact with me for a second before turning away and completely ignoring my presence.

Huh.

But before I can question this strange behaviour further, Nott comes hurrying in to take the empty space beside Rosier.

"How nice of you to join us, Lydia," Rosier comments sarcastically. "And, oh! You must have spent a lot of time on your hair this morning, didn't you?" she smiles. It isn't a nice smile. "It really shows."

Nott flushes fiercely and doesn't lift her eyes from her lap. "Sorry, Druella. I, ah, slept in."

 _'Bitch,'_ I think, but don't say anything.

The moment is broken when Avery starts choking on a piece of pancake. Immediately Tom leans away from him and everyone stares at him either bewilderment or slight concern.

"You okay, Sebastian?" Black asks him.

Avery wordlessly shakes his head no. When it gets to the point where I suspect that he's stopped breathing, based on his wide-eyed panicked look and the hands griping his throat, I bolt out of my seat to stand behind him, leaning him forwards slightly.

"What are you doing-"

I pound the heel of my palm between Avery's shoulder blades _hard,_ and on the fourth blow something slimy and pale shoots out of his mouth and onto the table, close to Lestrange's plate.

More than one person scrambles away, exclaiming their horror and disgust.

"You okay, kid?" I ignore the others, asking Avery sincerely and rubbing his back.

"Hey, what's going on?" A Second Year with his wand out sitting near us wonders. That's when I notice that we've caught the attention of a few other students at the table.

"He's fine," I assure them. "Avery here just didn't chew his food enough. Right?"

"I -ah, yes," he croaks out. "Thank you."

"No problem," I tell him, thinking back on when I was eleven and I almost died myself via a vengeful piece of broccoli. (Never were a fan of a the shite vegetable since then.) If Grace hadn't been so quick or knowledgeable then... I give Avery a final pat on the shoulder before returning to my seat.

Tom gives me a strange look. _'Where did you learn how to do that?'_

I shrug, turning back to my food, feeling a tad self-conscious now.

"That's disgusting, Sebastian," Lestrange says, nose and face twisted up in deep disgust, warily sitting back down and nudging his plate away from himself. "Now I can't eat!"

"It's not as disgusting as your smell," I sneer at the prat, feeling irritated on Avery's behalf. I mean, sure, Avery is as annoying as the rest of them, but cut him some slack! The boy was almost done in by a piece of fucking pancake, for God's sake.

"I don't smell!" Lestrange glares at me hatefully, almost foaming at the mouth.

I simply raise my brows at him. "And how, exactly, would you know how you smell when you life with yourself? Obviously you've become desensitized over the years," I rebuke calmly.

"He doesn't smell," Malfoy defends Lestrange.

"See!" Lestrange exclaims and gestures wildly, as if Malfoy agreeing with him settles the matter.

(He doesn't smell -and I would know, living in Wool's and all of the orphaned boys, but like hell I'm admitting that.)

I just sigh and shake my head mournfully, an action that says more than anything else I could have uttered.

If looks could kill, I'd already be buried six feet under (again.) Lestrange seems like he's chewing on a set choice of words, but to my surprised he just shoots one final dagger at me before moodily turning away.

Huh.

I share a confused, slightly suspicious glance with Tom.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Lilith questions me, referring to the Choking Incident.

I shrug. That seems to be all the drama for the morning. Except it really isn't.

It's not until mid way through breakfast, everyone chatting or eating, in which Tom and I take the first sip of our juice while listening to the others, that I feel something strange.

Firstly, my juice is oddly... _Bitter,_ unlike how I remember it being yesterday, and as soon as I swallow it painful sparks shoot straight to my head, making my head swim and black dots to dance in my vision.

"The fuck...?" I rest my forehead against my palm, suddenly feeling cold and queasy.

"What did you _do?"_

There are gasps with wide-eyed mixture of stunned and bewildered expressions from the others, until Rosier the Girl and Lestrange burst out laughing, breaking the dam and prompting some of the others to snicker as well.

I follow their eyes, touching something soft and fleshy that suddenly sprouted from my head. I can make out grey fur from the corner of my eye, but it isn't until I look to Tom that I realize what it is.

_Donkey ears._

"I must say, I _love_ your new look!" Lestrange jeers loudly, grinning so wide. "It really suits you two!"

Tom is turning redder and redder by the minute, his knuckles white as he grips his cup, and his body strung as straight and tight as a bow.

 _'He's going to blow.'_ I feel my own anger raising, hot and clawing at my chest painfully, _begging_ to be let out -my hand moves for my wand- but I clutch my skirt instead, bearing my teeth in a poor attempt to smile at Rosier and Lestrange. I know _exactly_ what they're looking for -what they're hoping for- and so I grip Tom's free hand underneath the table. Squeezing in warning, and a plea to follow my lead. Because like _fuck_ I'll give the shites the satisfaction!

So instead of lashing out, I beat down the urge to cuss and lean over the table, to grab them by their collars and to _slam-!_ Instead, I look the two in the eye, and _laugh._ I laugh, loudly, openly, and _freely._

It stops people in their tracks, not just Rosier and Lestrange. Even the older students near us and some at the Ravenclaw table.

"People often told me I was an arse, but I guess now I'm one on a whole other level! Eh, Tom?" I joke and nudge him.

"Yes," he grits out, almost choking on the single word, and squeezing my hand so hard I fear my bones might give out. "Tell us, Lestrange, Rosier, how did you manage it? A potion, I assume? It was very clever of you." He attempts to laugh it off as well, a sound he's spend countless hours practicing in the privacy of our room at Wool's, to make it as genuine and free as if it were real. He doesn't quite pull it off in this moment.

"It wasn't us." Rosier doesn't even _try_ to make her lie sound convincing. "But if you ask me, I don't see much of a difference," she smiles bitingly, smugly.

Yet, she can't erase the few seconds that she faltered when I had laughed, nor can she regain all of the ground she lost then.

"Well, _whoever_ it was, I'd fucking _love_ to repay the favour," I say, supporting my cheek with my hand, elbow on the table.

"Oh, yes," Tom agrees 'grandly' and returns a false smile to them, narrowing his dark eyes which promises the worst kind of retribution. "It'll be _such_ fun. It's been a while since Dorothy and I have played with someone else," he adds silkily, mysteriously. _Darkly._

His words send a shiver down _my own_ goddamn spine.

"Are you _threatening_ me-"

"Um, maybe we should get a Prefect, or a Professor-" Lilith stands, eyes flickering everywhere but here, but Spademan is already on his way.

"What the bloody hell happened here?" he demands, immediately spotting Tom and I's spanking new ears.

I grin up at him, which seems to put him off. "Nothing to worry about," I tell him with fake cheer. "Just a joke among friends, really. Tom and I made quite the _fools_ of ourselves, eh? Eh?" I flap my donkey ear pointedly, and Black groans and buries his face in his hands.

Tom's hand twitches. He wants to smack me upside the head, I'm positive.

That makes my grin boarder, and the laugh that bubbles up and fall from my lips actually fucking _genuine._ Nothing like causing people pain via puns! "What, too _punny_ for you?" I snicker gleefully. "Am I _pun_ ishing you?"

Malfoy snorts, and when I lock eyes with him I _know._ He enjoys puns, too. He averts his gaze.

"Stop," Spademan grimaces. Then sighs, knowing that not much else can be taken from here. "Classes are about to start soon, so finish up quickly. Riddles, if you sit still I'm sure that I can..." He takes out his wand, pointing it at Tom and whispering.

Tom's ears shrink before they disappear altogether, but when Spademan turns to me I hold up my hands.

"No, wait!" I protest. "I want to keep them."

 _"What."_ Tom isn't the only one to question me, but he is the one with the flattest tone. _'What in God's sake_ for?' he seems to demand of me without words.

My lips curl, and I shrug. "Just for today. They're _funny."_

"You..." Spademan seems to be at a lost for words.

"Am an arse?" I finish for him impishly.

"Nooo..." Black whines. "Stop it."

"Nah, I'm way too _stubborn."_ Okay, maybe that last one _is_ pretty shitty.

"Well, at least she _admits_ that it fits her," Rosier sniffs, trying to gain back a resemble of 'control'.

"That's what I _just said_ ," I drawl, rolling my eyes. "Honestly, maybe _you're_ the one in need of better ears."

Lilith giggles, and Rosier the Boy snorts. He quickly retreats, through, under his twin's fiery glare.

"Right. Well." Spademan makes a funny little thing with his face, before shaking his head. "If you're all done, let's go."

Charm class is made very interesting thanks to Rosier and Lestrange's prank, and true to my word I keep at it. Making jokes and puns with very chance presented to myself, I get the absolute _delight_ of watching as the two little shites get more and more frustrated. Oh, sure, they try to insult me, but with me laughing _alongside_ everyone else and even _encouraging it_ , the insults fall flat and ineffective.

Sure, this'll be a running joke for a week or two, and _nobody_ is going to be forgetting it anytime soon, but what's two weeks compared to the lifetime of mockery if I were to hide it and act ashamed? Fucking _nothing,_ that's what.

They succeeded in making me a spectacle -a _fool_ if you would- but not in the way they desperately wished. And they know it, too. They also know that there is _shite_ they can do about it, but fume and seethe and pout.

_'Fucking checkmate.'_

They aren't the only ones who hate me for dragging this out willingly, either. Tom is short and clipped with everything, tense with simmering, thinly controlled wrath as can be, despite his best efforts. He might be able to trick the others into believing otherwise, but not _me._

Yet, even as he loathes my methods, he at least admits to himself that it's effective. Otherwise he wouldn't be keeping his mouth shut concerning my little act.

However, it doesn't last very long. When Double Charms comes to a close, after lunch and a quick trip to the dormitory, us First Years are escorted to Transfiguration class.

Once everyone is settled and Dumbledore begins roll call -ignoring the Ravenclaws whispering, pointing, and quiet snickers towards myself- his brows shoot to his hairline, and stops at my name.

"I see, Miss Riddle, that you seem to have new...Accessories," he comments lightly.

That proves to be too much for the Ravenclaws, and they break. Dumbledore doesn't pay them any mind as he keeps his attention on me.

I smirk, leaning forward on my elbows. "I've been told that I can be an arse at times. Or perhaps I just have a hearing problem?"

Oh! I see it! Right there! His lips twitched! You can't hide it from me, fucker! You think this is funny too!

"Dorothy..." Tom sighs as if in pain. Ha.

Dumbledore's lips purse into a thin line. "Five points from Slytherin for your language. And be as it may, Miss Riddle, I can't have you be a distraction in my class." He already has his wand out and spells my donkey ears away before I can argue.

 _'Arsehole.'_ I pout.

The rest of the class goes without much fanfare, under Dumbledore's watchful eye. Mostly just boring notes, and then homework assigned at the end of class.

 _'What is it with teachers and bloody homework? They're only creating more work for themselves!'_ It's not even _interesting_ homework, either.

I'm starting to regret all of the learning Tom and I did over the summer...The classes have lost its magic (-haha, aren't I _funny?-)_ now that I already know it...Hopefully it'll pick up once again after Christmas...

But, oh, next is _Flying class!_ And that's _never_ dull!

"Last one to the pitch is a rotten egg!" I shout, cackling as I race past Spademan and the other First Years.

"Wha-"

"Dorothy!"

I simply grin wider, going faster as I hear numerous, thunderous feet behind me.

* * *

"I'm going to _kill them!"_

I flinch despite myself as Tom rains down all of his pent up fury towards the desk. Not yet knowing or able to perform effective blasting curses with his wand, he opted to release his emotions the old fashioned way. Another kick that sends a wooden chair flying -and, ah, there it is. Tom cusses as he massages his abused foot, glaring at the fallen chair as if it's _its_ fault that he got hurt.

Honestly, I'm just impressed that he was able to hold himself together this long. Flying class has come and passed, I had long ago left the snake brothers back in the dormitory before Transfiguration, and now supper is only a few minutes away. We've been in this old unused classroom for _two hours_.

"Why aren't _you_ angry?" he demands hotly, turning his blazing eyes on me. "Or do you _like_ being played the fool? Don't think that I didn't notice you weren't _faking_ those smiles and laughter!"

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. "Take your anger out on the furniture all you want, but _don't_ try to fucking blame _me,_ you prat."

He growls, running his hand through his locks and utterly destroying his careful, put together look. He works his jaw, but then sighs as if all the energy has been drained out of him. Shoulders slumping, he walks and envelops me into a hug. "I'm sorry, Dorothy," he mutters.

I hug him back. Warmly and tightly, because no matter what he's still my twin. "You're forgiven. Now, what kind of revenge are you thinking?"

As Tom pulls away to start explaining, with a smile that's more of a bearing of teeth, I have to take my words back. Because he is _not_ drained -only controlled, in a way that he wasn't earlier. The fiery anger is still there, burning in his dark eyes, and it's _hungry._ Just like when Billy had cut my hair. Only this time, I don't know how far it'll go before it's finally satisfied.

* * *

We end up missing supper by half. There had been a lot of arguing between Tom and I -about the length of our revenge, and how to even go about it- but when our stomachs started growling something fierce, we finally decided to finish the 'discussion' tonight, in the privacy of our bed with curtains. And Parseltongue. Can't forget our secret language.

"Hello!"

"Where did the two of you run off to?"

"Fall in a ditch somewhere?" Rosier the Girl sneers. "Shame that you clawed your way back."

"Druella..." her brother glances between the three of us nervously, biting his lip.

"Oh, was that what it was?" I fake surprise, widening my eyes. "I thought it was your house!"

She flushes with anger, spiting, "I am a _Rosier!_ My _shoe racks_ are worth more than the entirety of your filthy orphanage!"

I tilt my chin up, looking down at her in my position of standing compared to her sitting. "If being a Rosier means having a face anything like yours, then I'll pass, thanks," I drawl dryly.

"You-!"

"Come on, please don't fight-"

"What is Lestrange doing?" Tom questions no one in particular, staring suspiciously at the Head Table with narrowed eyes.

I follow his line of sight, seeing Lestrange talking with hand gestures to a concerned looking Professor Slughorn.

Dread settles in my stomach when the Professor glances at Tom and I. He tells Lestrange something, causing the boy to walk away with a rather mean, triumphant smirk on his smarmy face.

_'What the fuck was that?'_

"Professor Slughorn would like to talk to you after supper," Lestrange informs me smugly.

"What about?" Tom demands tightly.

I didn't think the prat could get smugger, but yet...

"About your _inappropriate_ behaviour," he hints at.

Rosier the Girl laughs, just as gleeful as Lestrange.

 _'Inappropriate behaviour? Well, I'm plenty inappropriate, but what-'_ Oh. Oh, he -that little piece of shite! Hot fury spikes within me, makes my blood boil, but I ground my teeth and resist the sudden urge to punch the smirk right off his face! There are too many witnesses, after all.

Tom seems to have connected the dots as well, given how tense he's become. But then, to the confusion of the others, he wipes away any traces of anger in the next second, smiling at Lestrange in a way that would seem friendly only if you were stupid or blind. "Thank you letting us know," he says with a dangerous, almost sugary-sweet undertone.

Lestrange pales and takes a step back, eyes locked with Tom's.

My mind is working furiously, trying to think of ways to get around this new problem. Once I settle on a decision, I feel at ease and sit down for supper. I'll let Professor Slughorn make the first move -it makes my own reaction that more believable. **"I have a plan,"** I assure Tom and squeeze his hand when he sits beside me.

 **"What is it?"** he demands.

I give him a shite-eating grin. **"I'm going to guilt trip the Professor."**

 **"Do you think it'll work?"** he arches a brow testily.

 **"With the way I'm going to pull it off? Absolutely."** I start filling my plate with seasoned veggies, mashed potatoes, and chicken.

"You're going to get it now," Rosier the Girl tells me, full of confidence. "You can't laugh _this_ off!"

Ah. Of fucking course this is about _that._ What is this, Plan B of Humiliate The Riddle Twins? Or did all of the frustration of watching their first plan crash and burn inspire this?

 _'Doesn't matter,'_ I decide. Either way, they're fucking going _down._ Though it sucks that it happened _right after_ Tom finally took a chill pill. Like, two whole fucking hours of venting down the loo, just like that!

"Are you _listening to me?"_ Rosier continues shrilly. "I'm _talking_ to you!"

"I'm looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow. What about you?" I ask Lilith.

"Um, I guess," Lilith blinks. "I always get up early, though, so..."

"You better not wake me up before ten thirty, even if it's to go to the library," I shoot Tom a mock glare.

"Or what?" he cocks a cocky brow, smirking.

"Or else I'll be using the extra time to find a way to turn your hair pink," I fire back without hesitation. _"Neon_ pink."

Tom sneers. "Not before I curse all of _your_ hair off."

"Please, I'll just grow it back overnight," I dismiss his petty threat with a flick of my hair.

His arched brow rises higher in challenge. "Oh? You think you'll be able to perform the _accidental_ magic again, on command this time?"

"Wait, I thought you said you didn't remember any accidental magic!" Lilith butts in, looking a touched hurt.

"I don't remember my _first,_ " I correct her. "I know my hair grew back when a little shite decided to cut it without asking me, and when I fixed a ripped book. But those were when I was _older."_

Whatever either Lilith or Tom was about to say, it dies on their tongue as us students collectively notice Professor Slughorn make his way towards us.

 _'And so it begins.'_ I eye him closely once he's before me, and I can immediately tell that he's looking forward to the inevitable talk as much as I am.

"Dorothy, my girl, could I have a word with you?" Professor Slughorn's smile is strained, despite the affectionate pet name.

 _'Using first names already?'_ "Of course, sir." I raise and smile up at him easily, even while my heart rate picks up in preparation of what's to come.

"I'll return your sister as soon as I can, Tom," he nods to my brother.

 _'I'll be waiting,'_ Tom gives me a pointed look as I leave.

I wave at him to let him know that I understand.

The Professor takes doesn't stop in the empty, long hallways outside of the Great Hall, or even in any of the countless rooms. Instead he leads me all the way down to the dungeons and into his classroom, where he takes a seat behind his desk and I stand on the other side, not having a chair of my own.

"Is there a problem, Professor?" I finally inquire, when it looks like he won't be making the first move.

"Yes, well..." he fiddles with a quill on his desk, before setting down to look at me directly. "It has...Come to my attention you haven't been...Well, haven't been sleeping in the girl's room. Is this true?"

I suck in a breath, as if this truly surprised me and I was afraid of him knowing. I cast my eyes down and clutch the ends of my skirt, biting my lip. "Where did you hear it from?" I ask quietly.

"It doesn't matter where. But you ought to know that, while I have nothing against you spending time with your brother, I cannot allow you to share a bed with him. Or a room with the other young gentlemen," he tells me with a touch of grim.

I recall Rosier's words earlier, about "not being able to laugh _this_ off." _'No, I won't,'_ I agree silently. _'I'll_ cry _it away.'_ "But, I-" I force my voice to crack, before continuing "-I'm sorry, but I..." _'Come on-!'_ I think of my past shitty days, the despair of Tom finding out about our heritage, the mounting frustration for this day _alone,_ and then the unbearable reminders of _Jacob -_ and, there it is.

A sob is wretched from my lips, and I bury my face in my hands as tears escape me.

"Miss Rid-Dorothy-" Professor starts fumbling, at a lost for himself on what to do.

 _'Good.'_ "I-I'm sorry Professor, it's just...Tom and I have _never_ slept apart before! The orphanage, see, well, we've never had enough space for all of the children, and-and-"

"Please calm down, Dorothy." Professor crosses the desk to put a warm hand on my arm. A touch that was supposed to be comforting, I suppose.

"I'm sorry Professor, I'm not trying to cry," I sniff pitifully. "Please, Professor, you have to understand. We've -Tom and I- have never _not_ shared a bed before. The orphanage is too small, and there are too many children, and with the brewing war with the muggles..." I finally lift my head to stare up at him directly, eyes wide, watery, and pleading. "I tried to sleep apart the first night, _honest,_ but-but-" I never finish my sentence, to busy sobbing my heart out as I turn to him and bury my face in his squishy gut, clutching the front of his robes.

"Ah...There, there..." Professor Slughorn awkwardly pats my back, attempting to sooth me.

Okay. Now I'm actually starting to feel bad. He is _so fucking awful_ at this whole 'consoling' thing. Is he really the best option for Head of House, or was he the only one available?

"Isn't there anything you can do, sir? Please?" I beg of him.

He wavers. "Well, I have some dreamless drought if-" fresh tears spring forth, and he scrambles to stop them "-Ah, well, if perhaps you're only there to sleep, and you're out by seven thirty, so that the boys can get ready in time..."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" I grin up at him, hugging him tight and quick before he can change his mind. "You really _are_ the best Professor! I'll go tell Tom-"

"Ah, Dorothy, before you go-!" The Professor halts me before I can leave, visibly startled. "Before you go, this came during the supper mail..." he reaches into his pocket and reveals a white envelope.

My breath catches. For real, this time. "Is that...?"

"Yes," he smiles softly. "Here." He gives me the envelope which I take numbly, patting my hand. "Now go, as I'm sure Tom will be very excited to read this with you."

I plaster on a strained smile. "Thank you, Professor. For everything." I leave the classroom at a much more slower paced than before, wondering if I can burn or throw this away before I see Tom again.

Those fantasies are dashed and thoroughly fucked, however, when I almost run into the devil himself. It seems like he had been waiting right outside the door for me.

_'Fuck.'_

His eyes immediately zero onto the cursed paper in my hand. "Is that...?"

Yeah, there's no hiding this from him. I suppose it's time to face the music.

_'Me.'_

* * *

****If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:** **

  1. What do you think of Rosier and Lestrange's prank and tattle on the twins?
  2. ****How do you feel on how the twins handled them, and furthermore on Tom's fit?
  3. ****What do you think they'll do for revenge?
  4. What was your favourite part?
  5. What was your least favourite part?
  6. Did you see any mistakes?
  7. Do you have any questions?




	11. A Loving Family

_Dear Little Brother,_

_'Family' doesn't always mean or equal love._

_You remember my old friend Clarissa? The one I told you was writer, and who I would help pick out names for? Well, she was a lesbian._

_(You can already see where this shite is going, can't you?)_

_Her parents and siblings didn't have a problem with it. Her two older brothers were in fact completely blasé about it when she came out -all "Oh? Huh. Alright"- and that was that. Maybe a joke here and there about their parents never having a son-in-law..._

_Her parents were a bit disappointed -at least her mum was, at first. Maybe she thought she wouldn't be able to offer as much advice when Clarissa started dating as she first hoped? But anyways, any slight disappointment didn't stop either of her parents from loving and supporting her._

_I can remember how utterly relieved Clarissa was afterwards. She didn't_ really _think that her family would throw her out simply because of her sexuality, but with all of the shite people and fucked up stories on the Internet? Well, she couldn't help the doubt that sank it's greedy claws into her._

_She actually called me later that day, crying and laughing at herself over how silly she had been. But she sounded_ so goddamn happy _despite her tears, so relieved and carefree as if a mountain had been lifted off her shoulders._

_And I was happy for her. Glad that she wouldn't have that type of shite in her life -only, she_ did.

_It was her Aunt and Uncle that became the fucking problem._

_Growing up, and before she 'came out of the closet,' Clarissa had been fairly close to her extended family. Visited most Holidays, and texted her only cousin on that side time to time, Abigail who was only a couple years younger than she, because they liked similar shows. Would recommend series and movies to each other and all that shite._

_Her Aunt liked to knit, and would always knit Clarissa, her brothers, and her parents something come their birthday or Christmas. And her Uncle was a professional chef, so eating supper at their place was always a treat._

_(It helped that they only lived an hour away.)_

_Then they found out. And, oh, what a shitstorm that had been!_

_Suddenly the Aunt -the bitch- didn't include Clarissa in the yearly gifts, Abigail wasn't allowed to talk with her anymore, and when Clarissa's family wouldn't visit without her, her family wasn't allowed over._

_Her Aunt and Uncle even tried to convince her parents to send her to a summer camp for fucking conversion therapy!_ Conversion therapy!

_"Only wanting the best for her" my pasty arse!_

_It really hurt her. Cut her to the core, that family members would turn on her like that. Personally, I was all for storming into their house and giving them a piece of my fucking mind, and then fling horse shite both_ inside _and outside of their house -curtsey of Chase and Adrien- but while it made her crack a smile, Clarissa refused to disclose their address._

_Not even her brothers or parents would spill because she had warned them not to before I could get my hands on them. She knew I was dead serious._

_Oh, all right. I wouldn't have_ actually _flung horse shite everywhere -no; I would have pulled a fucking Minny on them from_ The Help. _Make them literally eat my shite!_ (The Help _is a fucking_ brilliant _movie and you better as hell watch it when/if it comes out in 2011, and if you don't and you aren't dead then I'll fucking haunt your arse!)_

_I'm no stranger to imperfect families either. As you well bloody know. Like, sure, about a millions of other kids have it worse. Beaten, sold, starved, and manipulated a hundred and one ways to hell. But that fact doesn't make my own suffering any less valid._

_It fucking_ hurt.

_It hurt every time my Mum and Dad told me "later" or "not now." It hurt when there would be months (and no, I'm not exaggerating here) without a single word from my Dad, who is too busy living his life an ocean apart from us. It hurt when Dad still thought I was in the third grade when I was actually starting the sixth. It hurt, seeing the empty chair in the front row, where I had reserved a spot for my Mum during my debate competition. And it hurt again when that same seat stayed empty even after I switched to drama club for a year, hoping Mum would take more of an interest that way._

_So. Family doesn't always mean or equal love._

_But it doesn't always end in blood, either._

_True, I still had my siblings, Aunt, and Grandparents as Olivia. (Not to mention you as Dorothy.) And Clarissa still had her immediate family too. But we're not everyone._

_There are people -be them muggle or magical- out there, where their biological relatives are all dead, estranged, or unknown. All of those orphans in Wool's? Yeah, they might be little shites, but whether or not they ever get adopted, one day they'll find their own families. Yes, even if they grow out of the system like so many do. Even if they stumble through life never having a proper parent figure, there's nothing stopping them from creating close friendships like our own or marrying and making one that way._

_There are some people out there that_ don't _marry, or are unable to sire/birth their own blood children. But it doesn't make the bonds they_ do _have with others, be them young or old, any less valid._

_Family can be that childhood friend, who's been by your side through thick and thin. It can be that senior colleague who shows you the ropes, helps you get places and with whom you seek for advice and a fun night out with drinks. It can be that old woman or man across the street, with their crooked wisdom, fetching stories, and sticky sweets. Family can be anyone you want it to be._

_I love you, Tommy. I've said it a millions times before and I'll do it a million times again. I may bitch and moan sometimes (okay, okay, a fucking lot) but even as I lose hair and years off my life because of you, I will_ never _stop loving you with my entire being. There isn't a thing I won't do for you, and I dearly hope you know this with every inch that you are._

_And so while I may spit upon the Gaunts' and Riddles' graves, it is because I love you so much that I hope you can create your own family. One that doesn't end with me._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 7th, 1938.**

"Dorothy, we need to talk."

Mockingly, I widen my eyes. "Are you breaking up with me?" I gasp.

"Shut up and be serious!" Tom snaps at me, scowling as he whacks me upside the head.

"Ow! _Now_ who's the fucking brute?" I frown and rub the back on my head. He's surprisingly strong for a wee eleven years old, who hasn't lifted anything heaver than a basket of laundry or a couple logs for a fire.

"Still you," he snips. "But that's not the point."

"What _is_ the point, then?" I demand.

"The point, dear sister, is that you have a problem."

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," I sneer. I got _lots_ of problems after all. I return to my work; peeling the apples before me with practised eased as the kitchen bustles around us.

He sighs, long and suffering. "Dorothy, if you haven't noticed, we've been here since noon and we've already made four pies. Exactly how many more are you planning on baking?" he says flatly, gesturing to the three pies cooling on the counter beside one of the many ovens, and the fourth still baking in said oven.

I purse my lips and refuse to look at him. "You don't have to stay here, you know," I return tartly. "Nothing's stopping you from leaving."

Though we both know that he won't.

"And those morbid drawings of yours-" he continues as if I hadn't spoken.

_'I shouldn't have let him see it, damnit.'_ "Don't you fucking diss my art!" I snap. "You talentless prat. So what if they're morbid? It's _mine._ "

"You drew our supposed relatives burning at the stake. With yourself starting the fire."

"So?" _'It was therapeutic,'_ I mentally grumble.

Another sigh. "Dorothy, you're being utterly ridiculous right now. Morfin isn't going to murder us the moment we step foot into his house!"

_'He's not the one I'm fucking worried about.'_

Nothing is going the way it's supposed to! First, Tom finds out about his heritage thanks to my shitty forethought, and now Morfin refuses to meet us in the safety of Hogwarts! No, instead the fucking bastard _invites us to his house_ because he doesn't want to share the same air as fucking _mudbloods._ (Okay, that wasn't his exact wording. While he _did_ use the word "mudbloods" he was spouting about how decades long of Gaunts haven't stepped foot inside of Hogwarts because of a long arse disagreement concerning another ancestor about said mudbloods, and the way Salazar left the other Founders. Which he isn't about to break. Which leaves _us_ to go to _him,_ which he more or less replied to with a "whatever.")

So. Tomorrow Professor Slughorn is taking us the Gaunt house -address courtesy of _dear_ Uncle Morfin. A house, might I add, which is within walking distance of the _Riddles._

Fuck my life.

I know I said I've accepted that meeting Morfin _now_ and with supervision is the best course of action, but that doesn't mean I was ready meet the Riddles in the same fucking day! Because I _know_ Tom, and when our paternal line inevitably comes up when we meet with Morfin, he'll abso-fucking-loutely want to meet them too. And Professor Slughorn will only be too happy to follow along. I can't even use the Statue of Secrecy card, either, because the Riddles are _'family.'_

Can you truly blame me for losing my shite? (Tom is honestly lucky that I'm pouring my restlessness into baking, and not something more... _Violent.)_

"You've heard the shite that others say about the Gaunts, and read Morfin's letter. Didn't sound very welcoming, did he? I don't know _why_ you want to meet the arsehole," I mutter mulishly, peeling my last apple.

"Because I want fucking _answers!"_ Tom snaps back with a sudden burst of anger, slapping the counter with both of his hands.

I turn to him and open my mouth to scold him for his language, but what he says next causes my heart to become logged in my throat, and for the words to die on my tongue.

"If I didn't know any better, I would say you were hiding something."

Did I ever mention how much I _hate_ how bloody shrewd Tom is?

"You are, aren't you?" He narrows his dark eyes at me, tracking my every reaction and non-reaction like a hawk. I must seem as guilty as sin before his eyes -eyes that know me too bloody well. _"What is it?"_ He demands, hisses, and side steps the counter between us to crowd me instantly.

I inch away, turning to block him with my shoulder as I grab the cutting board and knife. "I'm hiding _shite,"_ I lie filthily. "I've already told you my reasons, didn't I?"

He grabs my shoulder -fingers digging into me harshly- and forces me to face him properly as his other hand is on the counter at my side, boxing me in.

A joke about not being interested in incest flashes through my mind despite myself.

"You're a horrid liar," he grips. "What do you know that I don't, Dorothy?"

_'I am a fucking awesome liar, thank you very much!'_ "Just got a shitty feeling about it, is all," I grumble, eyeing him carefully. "Mind lighting up, brother dearest? I'm still trying to cut these apples."

His expression smoothes out from that angry scowl, and his painful grip on my shoulder gentles as he frowns and his eyes widen a smudge, eyes glossing over as if he's honestly about to cry. "Why won't you tell me, Dorothy? Don't you trust me?" he asks me quietly, wetly.

A dagger stabs my heart, the air stolen from my lungs, when a single tear actually escapes his sorrowful eye. My throat closes up, painfully-

"Please," he begs, clutching the front of my shirt, inching even closer and staring deep into my tarnished soul. "I'm your brother, don't I deserve to know?"

And in the next second, it's as if I got dowsed with a bucket of ice-cold water. _"Aren't I your brother?"_ Yes, yes he is. And for a split second I almost forgot who he is as a person. I rip away from him if he burned. "Don't," I spit, furious at him but mostly at myself.

How many times as he asked me to judge and score his masks? How many times has he asked me if he got the tone right? Pulled the correct heartstrings? _How could I let myself be pulled under his spell, even for a fucking, single second?_ By God, I almost fucking cracked!

That hurt, child-like expression of his is wiped away and he scowls, just as furious as I am. "Well, you won't fucking _tell me!_ Really, Dorothy, stop being difficult already."

"No," I snarl. _'Never. Not in this fucking lifetime!'_

His face does a funny little thing, and I swear he almost pulls out his wand to curse me into next week, but instead his balled fists shake at his sides. _"Fine!"_ he fires back savagely, "But until you do, and are ready to pull your head out from your arse, _I don't have a sister!"_

And then he storms out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard that it shakes behind him. The kitchen is utterly silent, not one Elf moving a muscle or saying a peep.

But all I can hear is Tom's wrathful words, ringing in my ears. _"I don't have a sister."_ He's just a child, as intelligent and as skilled as he is. Even grownups say nasty things just to hurt when they're in a fight, as wrong as it may be. I'm no different, really.

But just because I know it, just because I can rationalize it, doesn't stop it from hurting like a right bitch. Prickly tears swell up in my eyes, and I try to rub them away as I robotically turn to the abandoned apples. I pick one up and try to ignore the lump in my throat. I just end up putting it and the knife back down. I don't feel like baking anymore.

_"I don't have a sister."_

_('You ain't worth_ shite.')

_('So, so sorry.')_

"Is Miss alright? Is Miss be wanting some scones?" Sooty, with big eyes and droopy ears, sidles up towards me all exploring-like while holding up a tray.

"No," I tell Sooty shortly, my voice cracking without my permission, and turn away. "You and the other Elves can have the pies, if you want," I say off handily, before leaving the kitchen myself. Suddenly, the kitchen didn't seem as warm or welcoming anymore.

* * *

**September 8th, 1938.**

It's an odd thing, walking to your death.

I can feel the blasted, thrice-damned sun's rays on me, causing my skin to crawl when I think on it too heavily, only held at bay from the layers of clothes covering my skin. But for once, it's not the sun that will be my demise.

The air is crisp and cool. The ground beneath me solid but soft, and the stray leaves that have fallen crunchy. Little birds chirp and fly away, not confined to the chains that bound me where to this path before me.

I was not unaware of my failing health. Back when I was simply Olivia. Yet still, a strange feeling washes over me, settling deep in my old bones, as I take one step after another. It's different, this time, for-

_Whack!_

_"Ow!_ The fuck, Tom-"

"Is everything alright back there?" Professor Slughorn pauses, glancing behind his shoulder at us.

"Yes, Professor," Tom responds promptly and smoothly with a bright, practised smile. "I simply spotted a mosquito on Dorothy, so took care of it."

"'Mosquito' my arse," I mutter quietly, rubbing the back of my head. I shoot Tom a half-hearted glare and am returned with an extremely hard, unyielding one. _'Grrr...If today wasn't today...'_

"I see. Well, let's hurry, yes? We don't want to keep Mr. Gaunt waiting now!" Professor Slughorn says cheerily.

**"Stop being dramatic already!"** Tom hisses at me under his breath.

**"I didn't say anything,"** I argue. _'Fucking prat.'_

**"You didn't need to,"** he sneers back. He then picks up his pace so that he's walking side by side the Professor once again.

I had wondered why he'd decided to grace me with his presence when he hadn't all day...Breakfast doesn't count. But even then he'd refused to sit next to me, opting instead to sit on Black's other side and ignoring the others' verbal and nonverbal questions on this sudden and unexpected change.

Him hitting me and telling me to "stop being dramatic" is honestly the first interaction he's graced me with since our fight yesterday -eye contact included. It hurts, if I'm being honest. Cuts deeper than I care to admit. We argue and have spats all the damn time -there are plenty of times in which I itch with the desire to close my hands around his scrawny little neck and shake him silly-, he has mastered the skill of driving me up the fucking wall like no other, but real, honest to God _fights?_ Those are rare.

We've been through everything together. (Well, everything as _Dorothy_ and Tom Riddle anyways.) We shared the same _womb_ for God's sake -and although neither of us remembers that period of time (thank mercy!) that _changes_ people. Ties them together, as tightly and as snug as a noose.

I remember when we were only a couple of months old, if less. Couldn't see _shite_ back then, in those early days, but my lack of perfect sight did nothing to decrease my ability to hear and feel. I was still drowning in my grief, both for my friends and family, but most importantly for myself. (I thought I was done. I thought I did my grieving as Olivia, surrounded by white walls, the constant beeping in my ear, the expressions of people's despair, and the hushed sobs and tales of hopelessness when they didn't think I could still hear. But I found that was the filthiest lie of them all, because the type of wound and scar that death leaves on people _never_ disappears. It can scab, it can even shrink in size. But it never _disappears.)_ The wounds were too raw, and bleeding too much for anything else.

I slept, mostly. Slept to escape my sorrows when I wasn't screaming at the deaf, unjust world because I could do nothing else, and because it was easiest. Very few things could drag me back from the past back then, age one month to no older than five months in body, but feeling decades older. Things that beat back the lurking demons and the wailing ghosts when I didn't have the energy to do so myself.

Tom was primarily it. Even as a newborn, Tom was always _there._ I didn't know _who_ he was then, only that he was my new brother. My twin. He constantly woke me up with his loud shrieking, always so hungry, never satisfied for long, and needing to be changed every few hours. Sometimes I didn't even realize that I was hungry or needed to be changed myself until he or -usually- another baby in the nursery started up. Although it was only fair, because I'm pretty sure that I cried and raged more than any infant in that room.

My loud crying became such a problem that the caretakers had to move me into a tiny room all for myself, so that I would stop disturbing all of the other babies.

Only Tom didn't like that. Not one fucking bit.

When they moved me, when I stopped sharing a crib with my twin, when I was stuck more alone than I thought I ever could be...Well, I hadn't realized until then just how much of a balm Tom had been even in my most wretched state, with his warm, squishy body snug against me and his clammy hands clutching my clothes. Not until I didn't even have _that._

And it seemed like Tom shared the sentiment whole-heartedly, because when I was gone and apart from him, longer than any feeding or changing required, he _raged._ He raised Hell itself, with his strong and piecing vocal cords alone. And as you bloody well know by now, when one baby cries, it doesn't take long for the others to follow. No amount of rocking, cooing, or begging would pacify him. And when he would eventually tire himself out he would simply start all over again when he woke up.

Midway through the second day, one of the caretakers finally brought him to me. As soon as they lay Tom next to me, when we both realized that we were together again, could hear, feel, and see (as limited as we could) each other, it was as if everything was right with the world again. We both fell silent, curled up and hanging onto the other.

(I can only imagine the immense relief that the caretaker and the rest of the orphanage felt; when the two hellions finally calmed the fuck down.)

I thought it was positively adorable -still do- when the caretakers started potty training us, and Tom got _so_ confused when I didn't immediately follow him into the bathroom. He even got all huffy when I wouldn't listen to his wordless babble and grunts, to the point that he had -on more than one occasion- grabbed my hand to tug me inside himself. It was great amusement, watching as the caretakers try to explain to him that using the bathroom was a one-man job. Maybe he assumed that I would be in the room with him since we were attached to hip back then -more so then we _now,_ if that can be believed- and because one of the adults, or more commonly an older kid, were always in the bathroom to help the toddler still in training. (One too many cases of shite being smeared on the walls and pee missing it's mark. Looking at you, Daniel.)

In any case, solo trips inside the loo was one of the few fights that Mrs. Coles out-stubborn-ed Tom. Though he still made me wait outside the door for him, and vice versa...

Or when Tom kept insisting that he learn how to sew too, since I was being (unwillingly, might I fucking add) taught! Oh, the funny faces that the sexist adults had made back then! He had continued to butt-in on the sessions and steal another girl's supplies until Martha convinced him that it was a "woman's skill, not a man's."

(Let the prat learn, boy or not, I say. He and his nimble fingers can be the seamstress while I fuck off and do things that are actually _fun.)_

He also gave me a fucking heart attack when, during a moment of inattention, Tom had rolled too close to the edge of the couch we laid on. We must have been around four months old during the time, and the fucker would have suffered a head injury _at least_ if I hadn't panicked and yanked him back with all of my measly baby strength. (I made sure to pull particularly hard on the older dumbarse kid's hair, who had left us _alone_ on the couch, when I saw them next.)

The clearest memory that I have, though, the memory I will never forget...It had happened when we were just five years old, almost six.

The day had been disgustingly sunny out, although not particularly hot out with the strong winds blowing. There's a shed a little ways from the main building, which Tom was highly curious of for God only knows why. He kept needling and pestering me into checking it out with him -had been for a few days- and on that day he finally worn me down, and I begrudgingly covered up.

Tom has already lifted the master key from Mrs. Coles's pockets, the smug little prat, and so we went outside and -while avoiding being seen from the kitchen window- snuck into the shed.

Most of what the shed held was boring stuff, or taped and put up on higher shelves that we didn't have a hope of reaching. There were some dusty old mattresses, a lamp, and even a chair that was missing a leg. The most interesting thing that we found was an old picture of when the Orphanage was spanking new, and just being opened by a couple of old geezers with pearly white teeth.

The fucking problem came to be when we heard the doorknob being turned.

There was a spilt second of terror as we looked at each other - _no one_ was allowed in the shed unless directly asked by one of the adults, not to mention having to explain that we stole from Mrs. Coles- before we scrambled to hide ourselves. With such little time to prepare, and the inside of the shed being frustratingly well-organized, the best hiding spot was behind the locked chest facing opposite of the door. A chest that was tall enough to block me if I crouched, but short enough that an adult -or even a teenager- could see over if they stood up, even across the room.

Really, the only thing that saved my arse from being busted right then and there had been the fact that Tom was a second too late in hiding himself.

One of the old caretakers -can't remember her name, but she didn't last long anyways- demanded "What on earth" Tom was doing in here, and how he got in. I was just about to rise, because what was the point now, having been caught red handed? But what Tom said next stopped me cold:

"The door was unlocked, and I just wanted to see what was inside."

The fact that he lied about the door already being unlocked didn't surprise me, but the "I" in that sentence?

"And where is your sister?" the caretaker had questioned immediately.

"She's inside," Tom stared the adult directly in the eye while lying, not missing a beat. "She didn't want to come outside because it was too sunny."

And the caretaker bought it. Escorted Tom out while scolding him, and never once glanced at the chest or behind it. Of course, I eventually got busted when Tom tried to break the lock later in the night (his lie of the door being unlocked didn't last long at all; got found out the moment Tom was brought in front of Mrs. Coles), after the caretaker had locked up behind them after leaving, but that's not the point.

The point is that Tom _covered my arse without anything to gain._ I'll see it -that same selfless love- later again in the years, when I get locked in our room for one reason or another, and Tom smuggles food inside for me at the risk of being canned, but that time in the shed was the _first._ It truly hit home, then, that Tom isn't just a character that JK Rowling wrote. He is my _twin._ Mine, and I had changed him.

(I admit that I cried a little, when Tom and the caretaker left me inside the locked shed. But not because I was sad or scared -no, I had been _so fucking happy._ I had grinned like a fucking loon for the rest of the week, even through our punishments.)

While I was drowning in my grief, with my wounds too raw, bleeding too much, Tom Marvolo Riddle had became my rock. The anchor to bound me in the here and now, and the lifesaver to rise me above my sorrows.

We know everything there is to know about each other. I know that he picked his nose when he was younger, as vehemently as he would deny it today. I know that he once tried to play allergic to beans because there was a phase where he hated the taste of them, and I know that he has spent countless of hours practising different masks for others in the mirror growing up, all so that he can blend in and get the reactions that he wants despite his complete inability to feel remorse and highly limited empathy.

All of this shite means that we know _exactly_ how the other one ticks, and knows perfectly well which buttons to press for the maximum, desired result.

Which only makes Tom's cold shoulder hurt all the more.

It's not as if I can't understand where he's coming from or feeling, either, because I _can._ I would do the exact same thing in his shoes. For all he knew, for our _entire fucking lives_ growing up at Wool's, there's _never_ been any secrets between us. (Birthday presents _do not_ count!) It was us against the world. We've never had a reason to doubt the other, so strong and sure of the faith and trust we held between us. But now, at Hogwarts? And after my mistake of not mentioning Quidditch to him, which may seem like such a small thing now, but that only makes my mountains of lies grow bigger when news of our relatives came into the light?

I feel so awfully guilty for constantly lying to him. Yet, no mater how wretched I feel, how deep the dagger in my heart twists and digs, ripping my old wounds open, bleeding, and for the whole world to judge, or how large the gap between us slowly grows, I _can't_ tell him. I just can't, and I loathe myself all the more for it.

_('So, so sorry.')_

_('You ain't worth_ shite.')

_(Should've stayed **d-e-a-d.')**_

"Dorothy, my girl? Are you quite alright?" Professor Slughorn lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, snapping me back to the present.

I look up, seeing his worried expression -most likely nervous of me having another panic attack- and then at Tom, standing twenty feet away, scowling at the trees as he waits impatiently for us to catch up. I never realized that I stopped walking. I turn back to the Professor and shrug his hand off. "Sorry," I mumble and side step him, completely ignoring his question and start walking again.

The Professor lets it drop. It doesn't take us very long from there to find the Gaunt housing.

"Are you sure that you have the right address, sir?" Tom questions him, face blank but his tone convening all of his deep disgust for the sight before him.

I whole heartedly agree. While I at least knew not to expect anything fancy, staring at the hovel I can't help but imagine all of the... _Everything_ growing and infesting the place. If Nora and Jacob thought that cleaning Auntie Madd's _stables_ was gross, and Mum the whole farm, well...

The plant life is out of control, for one thing. It completely threatens to crush the entire thing from the sheer weight of it all. In fact, I can see the middle of the roof dip if I squint! The front window is shattered, little yellow pieces on the ground, and I see the wood rotting and paint chipping in more places than not.

Professor Slughorn checks the parchment in his hands again. Looking legitimately pained, he says; "I'm afraid so, Tom."

No one takes the first step to enter first. I try to make eye contact with Tom, but he steadfast avoids it, stubbornly staring at the poor, broken and filthy hovel. Until the Professor sighs warily and tucks the parchment in his pocket.

"Well, children, there isn't much sense in simply standing out here. Stay close, now..." He walks forward and knocks smartly on the door, which has its knocker missing half its ring. The stone snake seems to judge us heavily as we wait.

**"Who is it?"** A deep, scratchy voice demands from within.

**"It's us, Uncle. Dorothy and Tom with Professor Slughorn. We wrote to you, remember?"** Tom speaks up.

"What are they saying?" Professor Slughorn whispers to me.

"Morfin is asking who we are, and Tom must explained," I answer him quietly. Butterflies are overtaking me, causing my gut to roll with nausea and one flutters up in my throat, threatening to choke me. _'Breathe,'_ I remind myself. _'Just breathe.'_ My fingers twitch and I grip my concealed wand tight.

A grunt, maybe. **"Come on in, then."**

Tom pushes the creaking door open and confidently steps inside, Professor Slughorn following right behind him. I cautiously enter, half-afraid that the littlest disturbance will have it crashing down on us.

The inside might be even _worse_ than the outside. I spot wet spots on the peeling wall, the ugly stained curtains ripped and torn, and the sparse furniture aren't fairing any better. Piles of dusty and grimy pots and plates lay stacked against the worn-down furniture on the ground, mold sticking to them with a stench I can smell from across the room. The wooden floor creaks and groans just like the shitty door with every step, and there are more than one hole big enough to trip a grown adult.

Clearly, Morfin didn't do any cleaning in preparation for our visit.

And, oh, what a _sight_ our dear Uncle makes. With a lengthy beard to challenge Dumbledore himself, but which has clearly never seen a brush in its life and matching hair longer than my own - _'So_ that's _where I get my own mane from! I knew it! Fucking Gaunt genes'-_ he sits on the best-looking chair by the blackened fireplace. I suspect he hasn't changed clothes in the last decade, from the poor state of them, and I take half a step back when he shows his missing teeth, the other remaining ones being crooked and yellow.

**"So the little slut really _did_ run away with that filth, eh?**" he rasps, beady eyes glued on Tom's appearance.

Tom twitches. **"You know our father, then?"** he summarizes.

**"Know 'em?"** Morfin barks out sharply, stoking the knife in his hands. I shiver, crossing my arms. **"Of course I knew 'em! Merope took a fancy for 'em since we were kids...Always glued to the window in case he walked by...Lives in that big house over that way,"** he gestures carelessly to the right. **"Neither of you look like 'er, 'ecially you, boy. Look mighty like that muggle. You, girl, got Mum's chin though,"** he adds, eyeing my form. He then snorts, leaning back. **"I ain't surprised when Riddle came back. Left Merope, he did, and served the bitch right if you ask me! Dishonouring us by running away with that dirty muggle! Bad 'nough she did that, then I get a letter from _you_ two little maggots?" **he snorts to himself again, and sneers at us. **"You might speak the language, but I'll tell ya right now that neither of ya are Gaunts."**

Professor Slughorn steps forward, all pretty and plastic smiles. "Mr. Gaunt, please allow me to formally introduce myself; I am Professor Slughorn, the twin's Head of House. Slytherin," he adds unnecessarily.

Morfin doesn't so much as glance at him, which I find hypocritically snobby of him.

**"If you don't want us, then why did you invite us over?"** I dare to speak up, quietly but determined.

On the other side of Professor Slughorn I can see Tom dangerously still, not giving a hint of his true emotions to those that didn't share a crib with him. I can see the tells of brewing, white-hot anger though. See it bubbling up and up, threatening to blow given the slightest provocation. I see it with his balled, shaking fists glued to his side, the set of his jaw and the hellfire raging in his dark eyes.

Morfin stands, stumbling in front of us and still holding his sharp, glinting knife.

I'm not the only one who stiffens and slips their wands out. Just in case. Beside me, Professor Slughorn discreetly tugs Tom and I closer.

"Sir, please, if you would-"

**"I let you come -the only reason- is 'cause I wanna know what that worthless slut did to Slytherin's locket,"** he glares down at me, only a few feet away.

My heart is hammering away, my blood rushing in my ears. I can't look away from the knife in his hand.

**"Slytherin's locket?"** Tom echoes politely, curiously, and side stepping the Professor in order to press snug against me. I latch onto his free hand.

"What is he saying?" Professor Slughorn asks us worriedly, glancing between Morfin and us. "Dorothy? Tom?"

**"Don't play dumb with me, boy,"** Morfin spits -literally spits- on the ground, close to Tom's shoe. **"Robbed us, she did, and I want it back!"**

**"We don't know what you're talking about,"** I tell him against the rising panic inside of me.

**"Yes you do!"** Morfin roars, and I take several steps back with Tom. **"I came back here, and she was gone! Gone, and took Slytherin's locket with 'er!"**

"Sir! Please calm down! Perhaps if you tell me, I can help you-"

Poor Professor Slughorn is ignored once again, and as Morfin suddenly lunges -straight at me and Tom with his knife raised- Tom whips his wand out and shouts:

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

Morfin freezes instantly when the white ray hits him, before falling face first on the ground with a horrid _thump_ and _crunch!_

No one dares to move or breath for the longest time, with Professor Slughorn and I frozen in shock and Tom's wand still raised, shaking subtly, down at Morfin's stiff back.

Then the Professor seems to snap out of it and drags us out of the broken, dirty hovel and apparates us to Hogwarts' front gate.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think of the twin's fight?

**2.** How do you feel on their visit to dear Uncle Morfin?

**3.** What do you think will happen next chapter?

**4.** What was your favourite part?

**5.** What was your least favourite part?

**6.** Did you see any mistakes?

**7.** Do you have any questions?


	12. Year 1: The Fine Arts of Porcelain Masks and Savagery

_Dear Little Brother,_

_I once read a saying; "Defeat is only bitter if you swallow it." I can't remember exactly when, or where, but those words have never left me. In both of my lives I've never heard of a saying more true, although "chocolate is life" is a close second._

_There have been many bitter defeats in my life -in both of them- and you have been there for a lot of them. Some tasting like lemons, others like vanilla extract._

_One defeat in particular, though, burned like no fucking other. Like lava being poured down my throat, it was scorching hot and created an itch under my skin that would never leave, leaving my tongue numb and stinging._

_(And no, I'm not talking about my death.)_

_I can still picture his smirk. His_ fucking smirk _-so goddamn smug, so fucking pleased with himself- as he calmly left the courtroom, free as any disgusting, revolting vulture._

 _I despised that fucking smirk, and I abhorred the way he had directed it towards Jacob and the way it made him flinch. My insides had felt so fucking hot, then, with the world disappearing around me except that_ fucking, God awful smirk, _and the loud buzzing filling my ears. I had seen red, then, and if I wasn't being held back then I would have leaped over the benches and people and beat the_ absolute shite _out him-_

 _That defeat, more than any one before and after that day, was the most bitter defeat of them all. I was forced to swallow it at the time, with my little brother Jacob broken into a million bloody pieces, my family despaired and an empty husk, and with the bastard wearing that_ fucking smirk.

_But it never stayed down._

_It may have taken a few years, and I may have been closer to kicking the bucket, but I vomited that bitter defeat the fuck up. It still burned all the way up_ , _still stung and tasted fucking disgusting_ , _but the aftertaste of my original defeat was_ nothing _compared to the pure sweetness that was my revenge._

_Samuel Whitlock may have destroyed my kitchen, so to speak, but that never stopped me from picking up my tools and building it anew. From taking careful, painstaking steps to create the most beautiful and delicious revenge ever. I had all the indigents taken out. All the right tools lined up and with the oven preheating at the perfect temperature._

_True, perhaps the type of revenge had changed at one point, and someone else had raised the temperature -but, really, it's his own damn fault for giving me a cooking partner midway through. But the slight changes and adjustment didn't hinder the final product in the end._

_And, oh, how utterly magnificent the final product -the masterpiece- had been._

_So teeth-rotteningly sweet._

_The point, Tommy, is that swallowing that horribly bitter defeat once was more than enough. As Olivia I had sworn not only to Jacob, but also to myself that I would_ never _allow what happened then to happen again. That I would rise in power and make not only the courtroom but fucking_ Society _itself_ better.

_Of course, I never was able to fulfill that promise as Olivia. Didn't have enough time to._

_But maybe I can do it as Dorothy instead._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 8th, 1938.**

As soon as we appear in front of the grand gates, Professor Slughorn takes us straight to the Headmaster's office. It seems like Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet had been discussing something rather grim, but the moment they lay eyes on a frazzled and harassed looking Professor Slughorn, stony Tom, and dumbfounded me...

"What happened? Horce?" Dumbledore immediately demands, zeroing on Tom and I as we huddle together.

I can _feel_ the judgement piercing us with his sharp blue eyes, Mrs. Cole's hateful words whispering in my ears. He fully expects _us_ to be the problem, the ones responsible, and Professor Slughorn certainly isn't helping with how tight he's still gripping our shoulders as we stand in front of him. (As if we're standing on trial, and would make a break for it otherwise.)

Tom squeezes our clasped hands, tucking my head under his chin with his other one, and I take that as my cue to burst into tears.

(Mummy dearest would have been so proud.)

"I-I-I-!" I wreck myself, sobbing and gasping and clutching Tom as if he's my only anchor. (He is.) "He-He, we were just, I-"

Alarmed, Headmaster Dippet raises to couch in front of our quivering forms with a few long strides. "Hey," he whispers, expression falling with concern. With a flick of his wand a couple tissues suddenly appears and he offers them to me, which I take with a slight tremble in my hand. "It's okay, now," he tries to reassure me softly. "Dumbledore, could you ask Madam Gladstone for a calming drought, thank you. Horce, what is the meaning of this? Did something happen with Mr. Gaunt?"

"You could say that," he replies gravely. "He, well..."

"He attempted to _murder us_ ," Tom murmurs into my hair, hugging me tighter.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I didn't catch that. Could you say it a little louder?" The Headmaster asks gently, leaning closer.

"He-we were just" -his voice cracks, and distantly I marvel over how well he's selling his 'distress' even without the use of tears- "He attempted to-to _kill us."_

 _"What?"_ Both the Headmaster and Dumbledore jolts, shocked.

"H-He was asking about some heirloom -he wouldn't listen- we _tried,_ we really did, but," Tom continues with a sharp inhale, head tilting so that he's gazing at the Headmaster from under his lashes. "He had a knife, and..."

"Horce, is this true?" Dumbledore demands sharply.

 _'Wasn't he asked to get the Healer?'_ "Please, d-don't make us go back!" I cry, staring sorrowfully at the Headmaster. "I-I can't-!"

"Why do you think we'd do that, Miss Riddle?"

I only shake my head, burying my face in Tom's neck. Obviously 'too distressed' to finish. In reality, I'm running out of tears to cry with.

Tom plays off of me. "Mrs. Cole, our Matron, s-said that child-ren go to other family members if...If-"

"That is not going to happen, Tom, Dorothy," Professor Slughorn cuts in firmly.

Headmaster Dippet nods. "Indeed. I cannot speak for how its done in the muggle world, but-" He gets cut off, with the sudden appearance of Sooty and an older House Elf between him and us.

"Sooty and Head Elf Velly told Miss Healer Gladstone about needing potion like Mister Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore asked, yes we did, and have hot chocolate and blankets for the young Miss and Mister," the older House Elf announces, paying no mind how everyone but Dumbledore jumps in surprise.

Professor Slughorn is shooed away from Tom and I, and Sooty wastes no time in covering Tom and I in warm -unnaturally warm, although not unpleasant- blankets and herding us to sit on the small plush bench against the wall. Velly pushes the mugs of hot chocolate into our hands, which I numbly take. I'm so off-kilter from the uncharacteristic assertiveness among the two House Elves that I momentarily forget to keep my 'despaired, terrified little girl' mask in place.

The Headmaster coughs pointedly, "Yes, thank you, I-"

"Poor Young Miss and Mister," Sooty cooes, as she actually _pets my hair._ She also fixes Tom's outer blanket closer to his neck when it begins slipping. "We House Elves will take care yous, yes we will."

_'The fuck?'_

"We can take it from here-"

"We House Elves be taking care of the kind Young Miss and Mister now, thank you."

My jaw drops a tiny bit, if not for the words then the firm, unyielding Look that Velly levels Dumbledore as he dares to come closer to us, tiny hands on Velly's bony hips.

Dumbledore, though, remains unmoved. "While I don't doubt your care, you must understand that we require an account of what happened," he frowns, a curious, calculating glint behind his glasses.

"No, yous don't. The Young Miss and Mister _needn't_ be questioned right now, for they _need_ be comforted. Yous can be asking the questions to Mister Professor Slughorn."

Wow. Truly, _wow._ I never thought that House Elves could be so damn _bossy._ Tom and I share a look.

 _'What's going on? Did you expect this?'_ He seems to question me silently.

 _'I have no fucking clue,'_ I subtly shake my head.

Like, _yes,_ I fully admit to purposefully being polite to every single House Elf I've crossed paths with in the kitchen, because they're _dead useful_ and so excellently overlooked -but still, I hadn't expected them to jump to our defence like this! Not so soon, anyways, even with Dobby and Kreacher in mind.

"Listen here, Elf," Headmaster Dippet starts, having grown annoyed. "As Headmaster of this school I order you to step back so that the rest of us can handle things on our own."

Something in Sooty and Velly shifts, gaze sharpening and tone turning cold. "As Head Elf, Velly be reminding Mister Headmaster that we Elves _not_ be bonded yous, but Hogwarts Herself, thank you." The _'so we don't need to obey you about jackshite'_ left unsaid, but not unheard.

"Young Miss and Mister not be liking their hot chocolate?" Sooty asks, not unkindly as she glances down to our untouched mugs.

"Ah, it's fine, thank you," I mumble, and then hesitantly take a sip.

Tom copies me, keen eyes not moving from the showdown before us.

Said (tense) showdown between Velly, Headmaster Dippet, and Dumbledore is shattered when Madam Gladstone hurries in. "I have the calming droughts you requested." Her hawk-like eyes zeroes onto Tom and I, and the House Elves step back for her.

I feel like I'm under an X-ray with the way she examines me head to toe.

"Did you have another panic attack, dear?"

Perhaps she felt safe to ask it in such a blunt manner, seeing as I'm obviously not shaking, rocking, scratching myself, etc. Tom on the other hand doesn't agree, seeing as he tightened his iron grip on my free hand and the way he holds off killing her via Death Glare alone. Honestly, the worrywart.

"No, she didn't," Tom speaks for me, his other skinny arm around my waist and holding me close.

"I'm afraid that the twins' visit with Mr. Gaunt...Didn't quite go as planed," the Headmaster winces.

"Armando, I insist that we call the Aurors," Professor Slughorn says next to the man. "It was pure luck that we got out as it is! That man should not be allowed to get away with this! Just imagine what would have happened if I were not there with them."

"How did the three of you escape?" Dumbledore questions intently. "Mr. Riddle said he had a _knife,_ correct? Not a wand?"

As Professor Slughorn gives a play-by-play -well, as much as he could understand what was going on, anyways, seeing as he can't understand Perseltongue- Madam Gladstone gives us a small vial of calming droughts and asks us if we're hurt anywhere.

A sense of peace washes over me when I swallow, like I've just spent the last half hour in a hot-tube, relaxing muscles I wasn't aware that were tense before. I inwardly frown, because I can hardly rack up as many sympathy points now then I had previously when I can't be an emotional mess anymore.

"I don't think so," I tell the Healer, still mindful to keep my tone relatively low. "Tom stopped him before he could reach me."

"Oh?" She quirks a brow, and this had caught the attention of the adults as well. "And how did you do that?" she asks him kindly.

Tom shifts in his seat, turning his gaze to his lap and biting his bottom lip as if he is feeling shy. "Dorothy and I were very excited to learn about Hogwarts when Professor Dumbledore first came to us..."

"I imagine you were," Madam Gladstone prompts.

"Well, we looked through our textbooks...And I remembered this spell...The Full-Body Binding one that is. He came at us so _fast_ and-and well, you know."

She smiles at Tom, placing a hand on his shoulder. "That was very brave of you, Mr. Riddle," she praises. "Quick thinking, and you most likely saved you and your sister from a ghastly wound today."

"The Young Mister be very brave, yes." Velly agrees as she steps forward. "Sooty and Head Elf Velly be taking them now, thank you."

"It's okay, Velly," Tom speak up quietly as he stares at her imploringly like. "We'd prefer to stay here, actually."

Velly frowns.

"Well said, Mr. Riddle," the Headmaster adds. "Elves, you are dismissed."

"Yous be calling us if yous be needing anything at all, yes?" Sooty touches the top of my hand gently.

"Of course," I murmur. "Thank you, Sooty."

"It be no trouble at all, Young Miss," Sooty assures me before both Elves reluctantly disappear with a soft _pop!_

"I think it would be best if you explained to us what both you and Mr. Gaunt talked about, to provoke such an attack," Dumbledore says.

"We didn't _provoke him,"_ Tom immediately hisses, narrowing his eyes at the insensitive git.

"Of course not, dear," Madam Gladstone soothes while running a hand down Tom's hair, shooting a quick warning look at Dumbledore as she does so. "Professor Dumbledore just wants to get the pull picture. We all want to, so that we can help you better."

As Tom takes it upon himself to narrate our visit, taking care to do little editions here and there to make Morfin sound more awful, more unhinged, and us progressively more afraid and utterly defenceless like proper young children in the parts that Morfin becomes more aggressive, I watch as Headmaster Dippet pulls out some parchment and ink and begins to write at his desk.

Tom leaves out the part where Morfin told us where exactly Tom Sr. lives.

The Headmaster is still writing furiously when Tom is done, and Dumbledore dips his head in our direction. "Thank you, Mr. Riddle. Now, you and your sister has had a very eventful day today, and I'm sure you are both exhausted-"

"If it's not too much trouble, sir, we'd like to stay here with all of you if we can," I cut in before he can dismiss us. I make sure to have my voice wobbly as I continue, eyes downcast to my lap shyly for a moment before staring deep into Dumbledore's eyes; "It's just, well...We'd feel a lot safer if, if..." I let the sentence hang, for the pressure and expectations to settle on their shoulders.

"Must they be further questioned today?" Madam Gladstone tuts disapprovingly as Headmaster Dippet finishes his letter, tying it to his owl's leg. "I agree with Professor Dumbledore; they need rest, not more stress."

The brown spotted owl lets out a little hoot before flying out the open window.

"Please don't send us away!" Tom pleads desperately, managing to make his eyes swell with tears even. "We're okay -honest! We want to see the Aurors and-and I don't think we'd be able to sleep i-if -please, just don't send us away."

 _'Nice,'_ I think, watching how Professor Slughorn's expression crumples, Headmaster Dippet's pained, and Madam Gladstone becomes mighty conflicted.

"I'm sure Madam Gladstone would be happy to get you some dreamless draught if needed," Dumbledore says, the stubborn arsehole. "There isn't a safer place then Hogwarts, so there isn't any need to worry anymore."

 _'Goddamn it. What's his fucking deal? We only want to stay in the loop!'_ That's probably the same reason why Dumbledore is trying to shoo us away, too. Control.

"Albus, it's fine," the Headmaster finally speaks up. "The Aurors will want to question them themselves, and it doesn't make sense to send them off only disturb them again in the same night."

"Yes, that is true," Dumbledore finally concedes, given no other option.

And that's how we spend the next four hours. The three Professors distance themselves, talking to themselves with some sort of privacy spell making it so that we can see their lips moving and eyes glancing over to us occasionally, but impossible to hear what they're saying. Madam Gladstone is called away around the second hour mark, something about another kid's boils.

 **"Let me do the talking when the Aurors arrive,"** Tom hisses to me under his breath at some point.

I purse my lips, not promising anything. It's around the third and a half hour that I began dozing off on Tom's shoulder, only jerking awake when he nudges me some time later.

Green fire suddenly springs from Headmaster Dippet's large fireplace, and two serious looking wizards wearing uniforms step through. The Aurors have arrived. Both study Tom and I first, before turning to the adults without a word.

"Headmaster Dippet, I'm Auror Ford and this is my partner Auror Dawson. We're here about the...Assault that you've filed against Mr. Gaunt Morfin," the older one -about middle age- comes forward. He looks like he's survived more than one attack himself, with his cauliflower ears, how he quickly takes note of everything and one in the room and the confidant way he carries himself.

In comparison it's clear that Auror Dawson is a newbie. He's more curious than wary, and stares at Tom and I with open concern. He can't be older than twenty five, with his unmarred, white complexion and wavy brown hair.

Headmaster Dippet's eyes lights up. "Ah, Mr. Ford! You were a Gryffindor, yes?"

 _"Auror_ Ford," he corrects shortly. "And you're thinking of my older brother, Liam. I was a Hufflepuff."

"Right, right, of course. There's so many students, you understand..."

"Of course. Now, if you would mind telling me..."

"Tom and Dorothy Riddle, correct?" Auror Dawson says as he approaches us.

"Yes, sir," Tom answers shyly.

Auror Dawson smiles, crouching down in front of us. This close I can see the slight bags under his eyes. Silently, I give him some brownie points for trying his best to remain friendly and open towards two traumatized children.

"Would you mind explaining what happened today?" he asks us gently, hands clasped in front of him.

Tom tells him the same thing he told the other adults earlier, and while at he does that I try to strain my hearing for the other conversation happening across the room.

"...Completely mad, I tell you..."

"...Only spoke in Parseltongue, so we can't be sure that he was after..."

"...I got the twins out as soon as I could, of course..."

"...Do you still have the letter?"

"Miss Riddle?" Auror's Dawson's voice breaks through my intense concentration, causing me to jolt as I snap my gaze towards him.

He's frowning heavily, probably wondering if I'm still in shock or alright mentally.

(The answer is a strong _'fuck yes'_ and _'fuck no'_ respectively.)

"Yes?" I blink.

"I asked if what your brother has told me was correct," he repeats patiently.

"Ah, yes," I agree, a touch distracted despite myself. "Everything he's said is correct."

"Sir, will you be able to catch him?" Tom inquires with anxious, wide eyes. "What if he runs? It's been some time since then..."

Auror Dawson is hasty to put our fears to rest. "You don't have to worry about that. My partner and I are will make sure to keep the two of you safe. In fact, a couple of our colleagues are questioning Mr. Gaunt right now at the Ministry."

I share a look with Tom.

 _'Seriously?'_ I wonder to myself. _'They must have arrested him before coming here. Is that why it took so long for them to get here?'_ Somehow, I doubt this situation would play out like it is if we were in the muggle world. Then again, Morfin _has_ already been found guilty of assault on a muggle before, and how much do I know about police procedures anyway?

"Sir, when he talked about 'coming back' earlier..." Tom trails off expectantly.

Auror Dawson grimaces. "Well, I can't be sure, but he might be referring to his last sentence. He was found guilty of using magic against a muggle a while back, and only recently released."

"Auror Dawson," Auror Ford snaps, suddenly behind his younger partner who flinches in surprise, turning sheepish. "Are you finished here?"

"I am," he nods as he stands up.

"Good." Auror Ford turns his attention on Tom and I. "It's to my understanding that you have a letter from Mr. Gaunt? Do you still have it on you?"

Tom slowly takes it out of his pocket, but doesn't immediately hand it over. "Are you going to use this in a court case against him?"

"It's evidence that may be used against him, yes," he allows as he takes it from Tom himself. He then address the entire room; "My partner and I will take our leave now. I suggest you get further legal help as soon as possible," this he directs to the Headmaster sternly.

Headmaster Dippet dips his head towards the Aurors. "Of course. Thank you so much for your help today, gentlemen. It is greatly appreciated."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Once the Aurors leave, Tom and I are given the option of sleeping in our dormitories, or staying with Madam Gladstone at the Hospital Wing. Having what we wanted, and knowing that even if we tried to stay with the adults longer in order to eavesdrop, they would simply use the same muting spell, we both assure them that we're fine now and would like to sleep with the other students.

Professor Slughorn is the one to escort us back. Only a few, upper years stranglers are in in the common room when we enter. Tom and I pay them no mind as we make a beeline for Tom's bed, and he snaps the curtains close.

The entire time I can feel my heart quickening, like a desperate humming bird trying to escape. For all the shite I exaggerated in front of the adults, _this moment_ truly scares me. Because now the two of us are alone, with no one we need to put up a front for listening and watching, and Tom will show his true thoughts on the matter.

Kneeling on the bed, with his back still facing me as he clutches the curtains with white knuckles, Tom utters something under his breath.

With my mouth feeling dry -and not just from all the talking I've been doing lately- I find my hand hesitating to touch him, before dropping like dead weight. _'Fucking coward,'_ a voice snarls in my mind. "What?" I dare to ask.

Tom snatches my retreating hand, interwinding our fingers as he turns to look straight at me. I fucking swear, the humming bird drops dead right then and there from the sheer _rage_ that blazes in his dark eyes.

I expected it. Of course I fucking did, but to _see it_ -it's worse than when Billy chopped off my hair-

He leans forward, crowding me as he hisses; **"I'm going to kill that worthless fucker. Cut out his tongue, then take my time with the rest."**

 **"You can't,"** my voice cracks in the middle, and I hate myself for it. Now he won't take me half as seriously for it!

 _('This is my Tom,'_ I try remind myself. _'Just Tommy, not book!Tom.'_ Somehow, it isn't as comforting as I once found it.

Distantly, I think to myself that the calming draught must have worn off.)

 **"Tom, Tommy, you _can't!_ Do you hear me? _You can't kill him!"_** I bring him even closer, my free hand on his cheek as if that simple touch will make him _understand._

I don't notice that it's trembling until he covers my hand with own to steady it -and, God, how is he able to be so fucking _calm_ despite everything- _'No, he isn't calm,'_ I realize, feeling dread pool in my stomach, heavy and sick, _'He's simply so furious that he's long past throwing a fit.'_

Not looking away from my own gaze, he admits with all seriousness; **"Perhaps not now, however if he doesn't get a life sentence, or the wizarding court doesn't grant death sentences, I _will_ be there when he gets out. I thought-" **he cuts himself off, shaking his head. **"It doesn't matter anymore. Dorothy, you are _mine,"_** he breathes, **"and he tried to hurt you -tried to hurt _us."_**

I tighten my grip on him, feeling my eyes prickle with honest to God tears, a lump in my throat making it difficult to swallow. **"But he isn't _worth it,"_** I croak quietly.

I stare into his eyes, eyes that have never left me for the past eleven years, silently _begging him_ to fucking _understand. 'He's not worth it, not worth what his blood on your hands will do to you. Not worth_ losing you.'

God, how did I end up here again?

 _"Do you honestly have any right to stop him, though?"_ The nasty voice inside me whispers mockingly. _"Didn't you feel the same when that piece of shite hurt Jacob? Who are you to get in the way of Tom's vengeance?"_

But that's _different!_ Morfin only _tried -_ Samuel, he-he-!

**_"Please,_ Tom, talk to me! What did you think earlier? Are you maybe feeling betrayed-"**

**_"No,"_** he denies venomously, too quickly for it to be the truth as he tries to pull away from me.

I refuse to let him. **"You are, aren't you? It's okay if you are-"**

He wordlessly snarls at me, expression contorting into something even darker. **"I _do not_ need him!"**

 **"No, no you _don't_ ," **I agree, my hand that's not still interwind with his drifting up to sink into his soft hair, tugging it to keep him close. **"So don't _give it to him._ Tom, we can go through the legal ways. You saw how the Professors and Aurors reacted, and the shite condition Morfin was in. Do you honestly think he'll be able to weasel his way out of this? He's already been in Azkaban once!"**

**"And then he _got out!"_**

**"Because it was a _first offence!_ He just tried to _kill us-"_**

**"Yes, yes he did,"** Tom hisses, **"And I refuse to let him get away with it!"**

 **"We are fucking _minors!"_** I remind him sharply, barely resisting the rapidly building urge to shake the stubbornness and stupidity out of him. **"Attempting to murder minors - _in front of a witness, no less-_ is a fuck more serious than cursing a muggle!"**

Why must he continue to argue with me? Why can't he _listen_ to me just _once_ in his God forsaken _life?!_

 **"Why are you _defending him?!"_** Tom demands hotly, tone rising to match my own desperation. **"He is _nothing!_ A total disgrace, better off _dead._ Do you not realize that he almost _killed you?_ Almost, almost _took you away from me?"_**

 **"I am _not_ defending that shitehead! I'm not! But-But if you-" **It's getting harder to breathe, the closed curtains around us seemingly to to get closer with every second.

I can't let him go after Morfin. Can't let him go down that path. _'God, I'm losing him, aren't I? Losing Tom-'_

Why is everything so fucking hot all of a sudden?

**"Dorothy-!"**

Even though Tom is right in front of me, I can hardly recognize the words he's saying, muddled as if I were underwater.

 _'Too close, too fucking close.'_ Why can't I breathe? Why am I suffocating?

_'It hurts.'_

**"Stop, Dorothy-"**

Something is stopping me, holding me back, and it _hurts._ So Goddamn much. Like pins and needles, ants crawling under my skin. Too close, too fucking close.

_'Why can't I breathe?'_

**"Inhale, Dorothy, come one. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale...** Sooty!"

"Young Mister be calling Sooty -oh! Young Miss!"

"Get some calming draught, _now!"_

"Right away!"

**"Listen to me, Dorothy. Inhale with me, then exhale. You can do it...Inhale...Exhale...Yes, good job, come one...Inhale...Exhale..."**

_'It hurts,'_ I weep. _'Hurts too much. Too close, too much.'_

**"You can do it, Dorothy. Inhale...Exhale..."**

Something cold it pressed against my lips, forcing my head to tip back as cool liquid slide down my throat.

All at once my previously tight throat, constricting like cobra, opens and the knot in my chest, the increasingly painful thing loosens until it completely disappears. The pins and needles subsides and I finally have the right mind to see Tom trapping both my hands to his chest, and the blood underneath my nails and smarted on my arms.

_'Oh.'_

I slump against him, face buried in his neck and collarbone as exhaustion washes over me. I tug a hand free, which he warily allows in order to wipe the fallen, wet tears that trailed down my cheeks.

I can't help but sigh when Tom wraps his thin arms around me, pulling me practically on his lap.

Even without looking, I can imagine what kind of expression he's wearing. _'Another point against the bastard, for causing her to have another panic attack,'_ he's surely thinking.

"Is the Young Miss alright now? Would the Young Miss like some apple pie?"

Shifting, I peer over Tom's shoulder to see Sooty standing at the two sides of curtains' end, separated just even for her to see in.

"She's fine now, Sooty. But if you could bring that pie and a glass of water...?" He answers for me, not looking at the Elf.

"Of course! Sooty be right back!"

Sooty disappears with a soft _pop!_ and in that split second, I catch Black in the bed across from us, peeking over his covers before snapping his eyes shut and going eerily still, as if he'd been sleeping this whole time.

I wish I had enough energy to give a shite.

 **"...What was it this time?"** he mutters into my thick, bushy hair as he squeezes me tighter.

 _"What triggered you?"_ he means to ask.

 **"...Don't go,"** I find myself pleading quietly. **"Please stay with me. Let the adults handle it."**

He doesn't speak for the longest moment, until finally responding; **"Alright."**

And for the first time, I can't tell whether or not he's lying.

* * *

**September 23th, 1938.**

The next two weeks are completely _batshite crazy._

And I am surprised by none of it.

True to the rumour mill -which is rather scary, if I ponder it. I was never one to be interested in gossip as Olivia, and that hasn't changed as Dorothy, but I take exception when I'm the subject- and I blame the snobby purebloods one hundred percent. Because even though what happened during our visit is supposed to be _top-secret,_ it only takes a day for theories to run wild. And then another day for Morfin's attempted murder to somehow be slipped.

Truly, gossipy rich kids are to be admired and fear the way they're able to pry secrets out of seemingly no where. Because Tom and I certainly didn't tell them _that._

The front news article in _The Daily Prophet_ does jackshite to help, either. It's honestly rather brief, but the entirety of the student population doesn't need it be lengthy in order to know that Tom and I are the 'unnamed' students that Morfin attacked. Not when everyone and their Mum knows that we're Parselmouths.

Lots of students -not only Slytherins, but also from other Houses- have come up to Tom and I, wanting to know all the sordid details. Some are more subtle and tactful than others, such as the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, but commonly the Gryffindor and Ravenclaws are much more...Blunt with their questions.

Personally, I try to tell them to piss off -"no comment" is my only polite response- but Tom -wonderfully smooth talking, clever Tom- has chosen to seize our boost of popularity with his greedy hands.

Masterfully reluctant (-my arse, he just wants others to grow more desperate for answers and so that he doesn't come across boastful and arrogant, therefore demising his influence-) he'll slowly feed his audience of all ages little crumbs of information, of insight, but never enough to truly satisfy their hunger and which causes them to hang on his every word all the more.

(Mustn't forget how it was only thanks to Tom that Morfin was stopped before he could do any real damage, no, mustn't forget that. And oh, it wasn't truly so impressive, magic simply comes naturally to Tom, don't you know?)

"It's such a shame how Slytherin's descendants have fallen," Leo Parkinson sighs mournfully, with a touch of disgust, one conversation. "This never would have happened if he was still around."

Whether "this" referred to how the Gaunt's have become a laughing stock, the general populace of muggleborn and the 'impure' continue to dare to live, or how Tom's and I came into existence in the first fucking place is up to grabs. It could even mean all of the above.

"Yes, it is a shame," Tom agrees softly, eyeing Parkinson and the others with a glint in his dark eyes. "Our ancestor would be just as appalled -if not more so- by the current affairs. Things will be changing when I am the new Head, though."

This had peaked Darren Nott, Lydia Nott's older brother by two years, interest along with many others. "Are you planning on taking Salazer's noble quest, then?" He asks.

 _"Are you going to try to rid the British Wizarding World of mudbloods?"_ is what he really meant.

Sitting in the common room, surrounded by students of all ages, and everyone's expecting, heavy gaze on us -whether they be against or for equality- Tom had subtly squeezed my hand to keep my trap shut, and smiled mysteriously at his audience before excusing the both of us for Spademan's upcoming flying session.

Whether he didn't want to limit himself to the one political position yet, or wanted to avoid me outright saying that I didn't believe in the same bullshite as the vast majority of them did, it's a damn good thing that Tom shut that situation down as he did.

Because I would. Outright tell them that I believe muggleborns and halfbloods have as much magic and worth as any of their pansy pureblooded arses do, that is. I honestly don't care that it would make us outcasts either. Maybe that's very un-Slytherin of me, maybe my Gryffindor streak is showing too much, _but I don't give a fuck._

I've made it clear to Tom what my stance and believes are, both directly and indirectly, and now the ball is in his court on what to do with it. I still plan on conditioning and teaching both him and my Housemates to respect and treat muggles and their descendants as the humans they are, though.

But out of respect for my brother, I will avoid shouting out this information to the world unless directly, point-blank asked. (At least I until I can formulate a solid plan to teach the bigots some humanity. I only have a few vague ideas yet.)

Not everyone is taking Morfin's attack as well, however.

To no surprise whatsoever, Lestrange and Rosier the Girl has tried to twist this into Tom and I being "unworthy," or whatever bullshite. Like, if even the poverty stricken Gaunts don't want us, why should _anyone?_ It's such childish and backwards logic that's only making them look like complete arses, but unfortunately it seems like they've managed to convince a few others of the same.

Whatever minuscule progress Rosier the Boy made to get out from under his sister's thumb is gone, and now he along with Aclott Macmillan the Second Year and Edsel Gibson the Third Year (-not one of the Twenty-Eight from what I recall, but supposedly a pureblood nonetheless-) now joins Lestrange and Rosier the Girl in their campaign against us.

Nothing where the Professors or Prefects can see, of course, especially when Spademan is lurking around. I'm not sure _what_ he did to inspire such fear into the five of them, because I doubt two weeks of detention did it, but it warms my cold, dead heart to witness his fierce protectiveness towards Tom and I. Just standing in the same room as us seems to make them scurry away with their tails tucked!

(It's fucking hilarious.)

"Let me know if those five -or anyone else- starts causing you trouble," he had told me, his stern tone out of place with his sharp half-smirk. "Can't have our future Seeker getting hurt, now can we?"

(I still reserve that I'd make a much better Chaser than I would Seeker, but beggars can't be choosers now can they? Maybe Third Year...)

That being said, outside of the common room and my flying lessons we don't see him much, the First Years' escorted two weeks being up. They mainly do petty things, such mocking us, insulting us to other people where we can hear, trying to make us trip, steal/ruin our homework, or subtly hex or jinx us when no one is looking.

Never let it be said that the Riddle twins take shite lying down, though. In retaliation Tom and I have taken to sabotaging their own schoolwork, sicking the snake brothers on them to gather intel (-Tom wanted to make them bite the little shites, but I said no because one; they're venomous and two; the prats would surely go crying to Professor Slughorn if they got a snake bite-) and wandlessly, wordlessly doing things to humiliate them.

Mostly little but highly annoying things like having every piece of furniture move out from under them, the furniture literally dumping them off once they've let down their guard, making them chase their loose belongings around like headless chickens, and having random pieces of food try to smack them in the face. (My personal favourite. It's _so_ fucking funny watching them try to eat but sitting on the edge of their seats all the while, eyeing the food as if it were a rabid dog and ready to spring up at the slightest of twitches.)

We use a permanent sticking charm to glue pig ears on Rosier and Lestrange while they slept one night, and they have to wait until dinner before Professor Slughorn can finish brewing a (supposedly home-made) salve to get rid of them. We couldn't give the two little shites the easy way out like Spademan did for Tom, now could we?

Tom's favourite is when the snake brothers manage to spy on a conversation Macmillan has with his Yearmates, revealing that he had been going against his parents' back and buying fire whiskey off an older student, and of course sharing his spoils with said Yearmates.

Naturally, Tom and I sent out a photo catching the entirety of the Second Year Slytherin boys getting drunk as all hell red handed, courtesy of Barbara's older sister who allowed us to borrow her camera without too many questions (we still lied, _obviously)_ and sent it anonymously to 'Mr and Mrs Macmillan,' Professor Slughorn, _and_ the Headmaster.

(Did the two of us hide underneath one of their beds long before they all entered the room in order to take the photo, and then leave long after they all fell asleep in the dead of the night? Maybe...)

No Howler came crashing down during breakfast, lunch, or even dinner, but people started whispering when all Second Year boys got called out of classes and sent to the Headmaster's office all the same. It didn't take long for all of Slytherin to know that they had a few budding alcoholics amongst them, especially when the Heads of Houses each ransacked students of all ages things the next day.

Gibson and another Third Year were caught having their trunks smelling of spilled alcohol, but no actual whiskey in possession. The Professors weren't able to find the dealer -whether the dealer is also a Slytherin or not is unknown- and none of the boys are singing. Dealer probably threatened them one hundred and one ways to hell if they did. At least they appear to be more scared of the dealer than any of the adults.

Macmillan, the other Second Year boys, and by extension the two Third Years have become outcasts in the House, because they weren't the only one's caught with shite they shouldn't have when the Professors went searching, even if it weren't exactly alcohol. Plus, nobody likes to have their things -private or otherwise- fucked with without their permission, and it's easier to get back at fellow students and underclassmen than it is with authority figures.

From what Tom and I have managed to discover through eavesdropping in the common room, and using the snake brothers, Macmillan is apparently grounded for life and Professor Slughorn is no longer considering inviting him to the Slug Club, Gibson's parents are considering pulling him out of school, the other boys' are also being punished in various ways by their own parents. All of them are serving a month of detention and had twenty points taken away from Slytherin _each._

Meaning that Slytherin is most definitely in last place for the House Cup, dipping into the negatives even.

Yeah. The collective House of Slytherin is _pissed_ at them, shown by how the boys are shunned, insulted, and bullied similar to what Rosier the Girl and Lestrange did to us. They've all taken to avoiding the common room, and eating in their own little section of the grand table during mealtimes.

(At least Macmillan and Gibson have backed off Tom and I, in fear of digging their own graves bigger. Neither boy can openly accuse Tom and I for being responsible, not without proof and not without knowing the snake brothers can turn invisible, but the secret smirks we shoot their way when they turn suspicious eyes on us is more than enough for them to _know_. Unfortunately, Rosier the Girl and Lestrange remain blinded by their own anger, frustration, and insecurity to wise the fuck up and do the same.)

Do I feel an ounce of guilt for dragging the other Second Year and one Third Year boys' into the crossfire? Fuck no! For God's sake they're _twelve and thirteen_ , and already drinking hard alcohol?! I hope their parents beat their arses and straighten that shite out, because _that's not okay._

Although I _do_ wonder how the fuck they didn't get caught earlier...Even if it's only been three weeks into the new school year. According to the gossip mill, the boys didn't start drinking until the second week, yet _still._ But I digress.

Amongst all of this drama, Tom and I have steadfast been ignoring the giant elephant haunting our every step. Namely, what that utter garbage Morfin let slip about our _muggle_ 'father.' It's grossly cowardly of me, and as a unrepentant hypocrite even _I_ feel ashamed of myself...Yet, more than anything, I just don't want to touch that subject with even a ten foot pole.

I still think about Tom's reaction that night. How close he had been to falling over the edge, that wild madness in his eye. Can still feel the phantoms of his crushing embrace as he held me to him, lest the world try to pry me from him.

I'm fucking _scared._ I _-we-_ hardly survived meeting with Morfin, physically, psychologically, or otherwise. I'm not blind; I can see the disgust in Tom, see the deep-seated hatred being nurtured inside of him for muggles. I don't want to give him more reasons to turn against that part of the world.

I don't want to lose him.

Maybe it would be better, healthier, to talk it out with Tom. To let him progress his destructive emotions and help through it, so that it doesn't remain bottled up and become more explosive in the end. No -it _would_ be better if I did that, if I listened to my own goddamn advice back when Nora was having friend trouble.

But every time I try, the words get trapped in my throat, tiny pieces of glass that cut me up inside which I'm forced to swallow back down. The knot of anxiety in my chest grows, my skin becoming blistering hot, and Tom even had to talk me out of an up coming panic attack one afternoon. (He's getting frighteningly good at that. At spotting the early signs and quietly excusing us to somewhere private, even if we're in the middle of class, and to calmly soothe me until I'm out of the woods.)

So instead I pretend like Morfin had never spoken, that I don't know that the man who abandoned us in the wretched orphanage for eleven years lives only a few minutes away from the Gaunt hovel.

And Tom does the same. Not because he isn't furious at the man, not because he doesn't desperately want answers and to make someone he perceived to have wronged us _pay_ , but because _he_ doesn't want _me_ to fall over the edge. Without words I know how fragile I have become in his eyes. (Pisses me the fuck off. I already feel pathetic enough, I don't need him confirming it.)

Therefore we have mutually decided to bury ourselves in inner House drama and schoolwork.

(Most of the Professors have offered to be lenient and lay off Tom and I due to the recent family drama, but Tom refuses to let anything get in the way of our magical education, and has prowled through and dragged and nagged at me to do the same regardless. Still though, it's clear to see that those same Professors have been extra friendly, kind, and free in their praises and House points where it concerns Tom and I.)

We have also been hunting the shite out of the library for all things Lawful, as to better prepare ourselves for the future. Unfortunately, the proceedings of an Attempted Murder hearing isn't exactly the type of books they seem to hold, so the information Tom and I have is sparse at best. Mainly our poor brains are crammed with useless shite, like how dragon breeding was outlawed in 1709 and how disgustingly prejudice the Ministry is towards those that aren't one hundred percent human and _pureblooded._

But I already knew _that._

(Still makes me fucking _furious,_ though, simply thinking about it. Like, the whole Snapping of The Wand business? The way Hagrid wasn't allowed to own a wand after his expulsion? Yeah, well, it's _legal -_ not just _legal,_ in fact, but _the law-_ that _'halfbreeds'_ are only allowed _one chance_ to gain a wand. If they fuck up and get expelled like Hagrid did, or sent to Azkaban -not even for a life sentence, it could just be one fucking day- that same halfbreed will _never_ be legally allowed to buy or own a second wand.

Meanwhile, if Harry -a completely human wizard- did indeed get expelled like he almost did in the books, then he still would have been allowed to buy himself another wand afterwards if he attended a new school or was of age. And if a completely human witch or wizard did time in Azkaban, but then later got released, then it _still_ would have been within their right to practise magic, unlike with halfbreeds.

And for halfbreeds to have the damn right to practise magic in the _first fucking place_ they have to completely denounce their other, non human, heritage! Like the shite that First Nations were forced to do if they wanted the right to vote in Canadian history! Only maybe _worse,_ because certain halfbreeds like part giants, trolls, and goblins _still_ can't vote for the Minister they want!

This shite can't stay. It just _can't.)_

Tom had actually tried to bar me from researching with him when we first started. He believed -feared, more acutely- that even reading simple law books would remind me too strongly of Morfin and the big 'ole shite storm we're currently in and that I would have another episode. But it's not like he's in any position to _hide_ anything he does, not when we're tied at the hip like we are.

I promptly set him straight; told him that him hiding things from me is only going to do the exact opposite of what he wants. That if he wants to help me, for me to get my shite together, I need to be _prepared_ and fucking _informed._

It was a long, bloody and honestly exhausting war between the two of us, but in the end I came out victorious. Even if only because I wouldn't let him read jackshite about _any_ wizarding laws without me. Raised hell I did. Even snatched a book from his hands and threw it across the library, getting us banned for a solid week.

Which brings us to the present:

"Tom and Dorothy Riddle?"

I look up from the fat arse text in my hands, and Tom pauses his own reading to see.

A stern Seventh Year girl with an unflattering bob cut gazes down at us, and my attention is immediately caught on the Hufflepuff yellow of her robes and the Head Girl badge sitting proudly on them.

Tom smiles brilliantly at her, picture perfect of an innocent but studious boy. "Yes, Miss...?"

"Barnes," the Head Girl supplies. "Headmaster Dippet wants to see you."

"What for?" I ask, ideas already swarming in my mind.

"I didn't ask. Gather your things and let's go," she jerks her head towards the library's entrance.

 _'Who pissed in her oatmeal?'_ I wonder, but nonetheless start packing up. I turn to Tom, wordlessly asking if we're checking out any of the books on the table.

Tom shakes his head no, so we go to put them all back in their proper places. (The librarian still hasn't forgiven us for my book throwing incident, warned us that one toe out of line and we wouldn't be allowed back in until next year.) Barnes is clearly in no room to chitchat, so the walk to the Headmaster's office is spent in slight awkward silence.

"Applewood," she announces at the wall once we've arrived, and the statue standing guard jumps away to let us pass.

Barnes doesn't follow us up the stairs. But once I'm about to open the office's door Tom stops me with a hand on my own.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he tells me softly. "I'm sure they want to talk to us about the case, but I can tell them that you aren't feeling well."

I grip the door handles tighter, eyes glued to our hands as I feel the pressure in my chest compress. "I'm fine," I respond woodenly, before swinging the door open.

There's a small rounded table with chairs that's been added to the middle of the room, some of the Headmaster's belongings being pushed against the walls to make room. There's said Headmaster, Professor Slughorn, Dumbledore, and a smartly dressed forty-something wizard waiting.

We take the two empty seats at the table, and the stranger, a man with glasses perched on his bumpy nose, and a goatee with a few greying hairs, introduces himself:

"You must be the Riddle twins. I am Mr. Lewis, and I will be the lawyer representing you at court this coming summer."

"The date's been decided then?" Both Tom and I simultaneously snap to attention.

"Yes," Mr. Lewis answers calmly as he shuffles a stacked pile of papers in front of him. "The Judge has decided that it will take place on the fourteenth of July next year."

"That's ten months away," Tom notes disapprovingly.

Mr. Lewis fixes him a stern look, responding shortly; "The court is very busy, young man."

"Busy enough to push back an Attempted Murder case ten months?" Tom challenges.

I squeeze his hand in warning, the same time Headmaster Dippet reproaches:

"Mr. Riddle."

Tom ducks his head as if properly chastised, but secretly grinds his teeth. "My apologies, Headmaster, Mr. Lewis. I suppose I'm simply...Anxious," he murmurs.

"It's all alright, my boy," Professor Slughorn pats him on the back. "It's quite understandable!"

"Who's the Judge?" I ask Mr. Lewis.

"Judge Torquil Travers," he answers.

Based on the frowns and displeased expressions around the table, this is not a good thing.

Well, fuck.

"What's he like? Does he hates children or something?" I furrow my brow.

"I wouldn't go as far as to say he dislikes children, however he is known to be a harsh man," Mr. Lewis says neutrally.

Double fuck. A hard-arse, eh? _'I guess he wouldn't be the type to have a soft spot for children, then,'_ I think bitterly.

Tom and I share a look.

"Well, it won't matter so much when we win, will it?" Professor Slughorn comments with fake cheer.

"Indeed." Mr. Lewis gives the Professor a nod of acknowledgment. "From everything you three have told me I believe that it will be a rather simple case, all things considered. What is your blood status?" He questions us.

I feel Tom go still beside me the same time a sudden rush of anger washes over me. _'Is he fucking -does he seriously-'_

"Does it matter what our blood status is?" Tom's voice has gone ice cold, a dark edge in it daring Mr. Lewis to dig himself a bigger grave.

Seeing our faces, Professor Slughorn hastily comes to defend Mr. Lewis; "He only needs know so that he can create the best case for you."

That just makes it fucking _worse._

"We're half-bloods," I respond coolly, not looking away from Mr. Lewis's carefully blank expression. "Pureblood mother, muggle father."

"Half-pureblood," Mr. Lewis corrects as he flips a paper and starts to write.

"What?" I blink, taken off guard.

"You are a first generation of a long line of purebloods, and one muggle. Therefore you are _half-pureblooded._ If you have children with anyone less than pureblood _they_ would be half-bloods," he explains. "Most people forget that one, but it is still very much used in the Ministry."

_'Huh.'_

Soothed, and with gleam in his eyes, Tom inquires; "What would our children be if we _did_ marry a pureblood, then?"

"Half-pureblood. Legally, you need at least your parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents to be pureblooded on both sides in order to be considered a pureblood yourself."

Dumbledore, who has surprisingly chosen to stay silent until now, clears his throat pointedly. "I believe that we have gotten off topic. Mr. Lewis, you said that you wished to instruct the Riddle twins on how to behave for the court?"

And that is how Tom and I discover that we are in fact _not_ half-bloods, another project to find out everything about this "Torquil Travers" fucker, and learn what to expect for the wizarding court and how to handle ourselves during it.

* * *

**September 24th, 1938.**

Saturday morning is delightfully wretched, and it finds Tom, Spademan and me practising my flying skills in our usual spot. With grey gloomy clouds blocking any possible sunlight, and the biting, howling wind, no one else is outside -or at least within sight.

Tom eyes the way the wind whips branches and leaves back on a nearby tree suspiciously, rubbing his thinly gloved hands together. "Are you sure it's safe out in this weather?" he questions Spademan.

"It'll be fine," Spademan dismisses his worry. "She needs to practice in all kinds of weather. It won't always be nice and calm, you know."

Tom purses his lips in displeasure, but doesn't argue further. "Be careful," he demands of me.

I can't help but smile at his obvious concern, no matter how harsh or brattish he sounds. "I will," I promise, and hand over my red handbag.

Tom takes it with a sharp nod and settles himself against his usual tree, digging through the bag for the book on Familial Laws that Black finally lent us. He has to take a shite-load of things out, too, because after I found my school uniform in tatters one morning (-magic fixed it, but it sure won't be fixing whatever new revenge we're going to do on Rosier the Girl, the little shite-) Tom and I decided to keep our _everything_ in the bottomless bag.

Wasn't I so smart to buy it in the first place?

"Hurry up! We don't have all day!" Spademan shouts at me over the loud wind, school robes and Slytherin themed scarf snapping back and twisting behind him as he hovers twelve feet in the air, a struggling bludger held tightly in his arms and a bat hanging between his feet.

Seeing as I've been improving "leaps and bounds" as Spademan had praised, he now thinks that's I'm an adequate flyer to start learning how to dodge.

I won't lie and say that I'm not a little uneasy about starting off with the vicious looking thing, but like fucking hell I'm going to back down from this challenge because of some _butterflies_ in my stomach. No, I got some arseholes to prove wrong, even if I have to suffer through a couple broken bones to do it.

 _'Oh God, I really,_ really _hope I don't break anything!'_

I swing my leg over my broom, kicking off in one smooth motion as I rise higher in the air. I grip the wood in my hands, tense as I wait for the bludger to be released.

"Are you ready!?" Spademan yells.

"Yeah!"

The bludger is released, and without hesitation it hurtles my way.

Flying is a unique feeling; being air-born but not. There are no safe guards around you, nothing pressing against your back and shite to stop things flying at you head-first. Only a thin pole between your thighs and your own wits and flexibility can save you in the air.

So it's a damn good thing that I'm small and nimble enough to duck the oncoming attack, and then shoot off to avoid the next. Instinctively I head towards the castle, where there are walls and towers to hide from the bludger.

"RIDDLE! GET YOUR WHITE ARSE BACK HERE!" Spademan screams at me angrily, bat in his hands in case the bludger comes after _him._

I scowl, taking a rather sharp turn in order to delve behind one archway and fly out the other end, forcing the bludger to change direction and lose precious seconds as it chases after me. Nonetheless I head back to open space, where Spademan hasn't moved and Tom is standing up, wand in hand as he watches me.

I lean forward even further, chest brushing against the broomstick in an attempt to gain speed. I perform a couple more sharp turns and frequently change my levels, but the bludger stubbornly stays hot on my tail. At one point I fly too high for Spademan tastes and he orders me to fly lower, and with mounting pettiness I adjust my direction to be closer to him.

Just as I'm passing Spademan by, the bludger switches targets. Spademan raises his bat and whacks it back to me, only at an angle so it zooms over head and into the open, colourless sky.

My sudden stop surely would have made a horrible screeching sound if I was riding on wheels instead of magic, watching as the bludger flies further and further away until it makes a wide U turn, rushing down like a diving eagle.

"WATCH OUT!" Tom warns me loudly, uselessly, as the bludger fast approaches.

I only tighten my grip, heart pounding wildly and with narrowed eyes as I wait for it come closer.

"DOROTHY!"

"MOVE!"

When it's just a foot away, I finally yank my broom sideways. But instead of keeping straight and shooting pass me, it jerks like there's a literal leash attaching it to me.

"Shite!" I curse, pulling my broomstick further so that I do a complete one eighty degree, head-first as I naturally fall towards the ground. I barely missed the fucking bludger, not but by a hair!

I only just make out the second "DOROTHY!" as the the wind whistles in my ears, water escaping the corners of my eyes.

Fighting against the gravity dragging me down, trying to lift me off my broom, I push on the bushy end of it with one foot to help force it down as I simultaneously pull the tip up, so that I'm now level with the ground.

_'Oh, thank fucking mercy!'_

I'm heading towards the Great Lake, now, and I wonder...

 _'No.'_ I dismiss the fleeting thought of delving into the icy waters too risky. I don't even now if the broom will still fly underwater, or if the bludger will be able to still track me and hit me when I come back up.

Close enough to touch the water, I lean left to turn back to where Tom is, Spademan seemingly to have followed me as he stays off to the right and ways behind the bludger.

Some time later, after another bad, quick decision where I try to fake a right with a tree top directly behind me, and where I miss being hit by pure dumb luck, Spademan calls for a stop and wrestles the bludger back in the chest with its brothers.

It takes all of Spademan's strength and weight to force it down long enough to strap it, and then some more struggle when he realizes too late that his long open sleeve is trapped underneath it.

 _("Bloody hell!"_ Spademan complains.)

"Dorothy!" Tom all but shouts as he rushes towards me, pale as a ghost as he grips my shoulders with trembling hands, eyes wild as he checks me over. "Are you hurt?" He demands, "That-"

"I'm fine," I try to assure him breathlessly, knees weak and mouth parched.

He scowls, not believing me for a second as he forces my head down to see if there's any damage. "You absolute idiot! Trying to fake out the bludger not _once_ but _twice-!_ Utterly mad!"

"Tom! I'm fucking _fine!_ I had it under control! It didn't actually hit me!"

"Well I'm _not!"_ He snaps back, shutting me up. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as his hold tightens, clearly not having meant to say the words out loud. Still, he doesn't step away as he opens his eyes to level me a pricing Look. "What you did was so reckless and foolish that I'm shocked you're not a bloody Gryffindor! And don't think I didn't notice you almost falling off your broom, either!" He spits out when I open my mouth to protest.

"I am so _not_ a Gryffindor," I grumble, diverting my gaze elsewhere. "It's because I'm a fucking _Slytherin_ that I'm trying so hard at Quidditch."

"Well, you're not going to be anything but _dead_ if you try that again!" he retorts sharply.

"Am not! You're overreacting! Spademan, tell him he's overreacting!"

Tom turns to face the approaching Prefect, who has a large piece of his right sleeve missing. A fleeting glance towards the Quidditch chest reveals some of that same piece hanging over on the front side, trapped underneath the lid.

"What you did _was_ risky," he agrees with Tom with a frown and I scowl. "You're lucky that you didn't fall off your broom when you preformed that steep drive. And I wouldn't be trying to fake out the bludger again when there aren't other players for it to target instead, either. That being said, you surpassed my expectations today," he adds, lips twitching in a begrudging smile. "I thought for sure you were going to get hit at least once."

 _"You thought she was going to get hit?"_ Tom demands furiously, expression darkening as he glares at Spademan. "You said she would be fine! You were supposed to keep her safe! Is that not what a Beater _does?_ I wouldn't have allowed Dorothy to do this if I knew you were going to be so careless!"

"Excuse you?" I stare at Tom, indignation rising within me. "What do you mean, fucking _allow_ me?"

Both boys ignore me, the bastards.

Spademan narrows his eyes at Tom. "Don't take that tone with _me,_ Riddle. I had everything under control."

Tom openly snarls, taking a threatening step forward. "It didn't look that way to me when it nearly bashed her head in!"

"I wouldn't expect _you_ to know much about Quidditch, but-"

"OI!" I bark, hands on hips as they both snap their heads around to stare at me. "Both of you take a fucking chill pill, yeah?"

Spademan clears his throat, glancing away from Tom as he adjusts the front of his scarf as if realizing that he was beginning to stoop to an eleven year old's level. Tom, however, doesn't seem even the lest bit of ashamed as steams practically escapes his ears.

"I am _perfectly rational_ considering what has just conspired!" he says tightly, jaw clenched and eyes ablaze. "Is this normal, then? Should I expect my sister to get nearly killed numerous times in every game -in every _practice?"_ he demands of Spademan hotly.

"Quidditch is a dangerous sport," he frowns at him. "But bludgers never only target one person, like it mostly did today. It only did that because your sister was the only one flying, and I stayed out of the way just enough for it to not consider me. Rest assured though that I was still close enough to swoop in if needed; I have the newest and fastest Comet model. She needs the practice and experience for when she joins the team, however, and when she's on the team not only will there be thirteen other players for the bludgers to chase after, but Parkinson and myself to help protect her and the other players."

"Tom," I cut in, tone gentling as I touch his arm and drag his head to face me properly. "I really am fine, alright? Just a bit tired is all. And I trust Spademan."

But he remains unmoved by either Spademan or my words as any bull-headed mule. "This is ridiculous," he hisses. "You probably don't feel anything at present because of shock and all the adrenaline flowing through your veins, but that-"

"Ah, hell," Spademan mutters to himself, checking his watch. "My meeting with Professor Slughorn is in five minutes. Look, Riddles, we'll talk about this further later, alright? I'll address any concerns then."

He doesn't wait a reply as he whips out his wand to levitate the Quidditch chest as he starts jogging towards the castle, passing what I think is Malfoy and someone else who are yards away, out of earshot but not eyesight as they hang about at the top of the hill.

 **"Let's go,"** Tom orders harshly as he grabs my arm and tries to force me forward.

I tear myself away, spinning on my heel in order to distance myself. "No!" I refuse loudly, frustration and anger mounting. **"Not until you explain yourself! You fucking _knew_ how we would be practicing today, so why are you acting like this?"**

**"That was before I realized how dangerous it actually is! There was nothing to protect you, Dorothy! You were hundreds feet in the air, and I don't know if I would have been able to safe you in time!"**

**"Spademan was _right there-"_**

**"No, he wasn't!"**

**"I'm not fucking helpless, Tom!"**

**"You're not invincible either!"**

**"Oh my God, _nothing happened-"_**

**"By pure, dumb luck! Next time-"**

**"I will be better! Practice makes perfect!"**

**"-Is going to get you _killed!"_**

**_"What the fuck do you want?"_** I snarl at Malfoy and Avery, who have gradually made their way closer to us down the hill. A second later I realize that I spoke in Parseltongue and clear my throat, repeating in English; "What do you want?"

They both try to mask the slight startle from having Parseltongue suddenly addressed to them, Malfoy speaking up first:

"We just wanted to see what Spademan saw to make him train you himself," he attempts at a casual shrug, but has shite luck at it. Too forced, too awkward with the way his arms are crossed and his eyes won't meet mine directly.

 _'So the prat is jealous,'_ I quickly summarize. Jealous that a Prefect -no, a _Team member-_ scouted _me_ and not _him._ "Yeah? And did you _?"_ I ask sarcastically, hip cocked with one hand on it.

Malfoy eyes me up and down as if I were but a disgusting bug. "No, I didn't. I mean, the way you almost fell off your broom? How utterly _embarrassing."_

Avery snickers, but stops dead from the dark Look that Tom levels on him.

 _'How cute; he thinks his opinion actually_ matters!'

"You should stop wasting Spademan's time; you're never going to make the team, you know," Malfoy continues when I simply stare unbothered by him.

I smile bitingly, voice sickeningly sweet; "I'm sorry, but I can't hear you over your loud insecurities."

"I am _not!"_ Malfoy sputters.

"No?" I feel my brows disappear into my hairline in mock surprise. "Then why do you feel the need to talk shite to me? To make me doubt my skills and chances?"

"You shouldn't blame them too much, Dorothy," Tom sighs equally mockingly, eyes full of pity as he side-eyes them and addresses me simultaneously. "I would get nervous myself if I had been flying all my life, and then got showed up by someone else who's only been flying for three weeks."

 _'Oh,_ now _I'm a great flyer when there's a common enemy? Where was that faith and conviction a few minutes go, you prat? Eh?'_ I grumble to myself, barely holding back from shooting my twin a dirty look for his two-faced act.

"Anyone could do what she did," Avery pipes up in Malfoy's defence. "Not to mention she doesn't even have her _own_ broomstick. It's a disgrace!"

"Your _face_ is a disgrace!" I snip back thoughtlessly, feeling shame for the lame arse and childish insult as it leaves my lips. _'I really am eleven years old again, aren't I?'_ I think to myself with slight despair. Come on, I can do better than _that._

Nonetheless, Avery flushes with anger all the same because he, too, is eleven years old. "You two really aren't all that impressive for being Salazer descendants, you know," he spits out. Rather weakly if you ask me.

All four of us know that's a bold faced lie. Both Tom and I have noticed how _they_ notice how much the Professor's praise us, how easily magic comes to us. Not to mention how Avery first tried to lick Tom's boots when they first found out about our ancestry. Avery and Malfoy are just looking for anything to salvage their weak arse argument.

Such wishy-washy, indecisive prats.

This knowledge doesn't seem to stop Avery's petty words from bothering Tom on some level, though, based on how his hidden, growing ire mounts still and he takes a step closer to the boys.

"If that's the case, I must have imagined the time time I took down an adult with a single spell, no?"

"Everyone knows that _your relatives_ are one step away from being a squib!" Malfoy retorts.

I all but growl in frustration. This fight is completely pointless, and going no where anytime fast. "Look," I sigh, tucking some hair blowing in the persist wind that escaped my ponytail. "Despite what you might think, I really couldn't give a flying fuck what you think of me. If telling yourself that you're better and that I won't ever make the Quidditch Team brings you comfort at night and helps you hold onto your bigotry for a little longer, than whatever. I'll give you a reality check next year at tryouts anyways, but I'm not going to stand here and talk in fucking circles all day. Come on, Tom," I grab his hand and begin to walk away from the prats.

"Race me," Malfoy blurts out.

I pause, ten feet away and looking curiously at the mildly red-eared Malfoy. Even Avery seems surprised by his outburst.

Having my attention once again, he squares his shoulders, determination settling in. "Race me, and we'll see who's the better flyer then. Unless you're too scared?"

Draco Malfoy's words echoes in my mind, quiet and taunting. _'Scared, Potter?'_

Let it never be said that I'm some fucking _pussy._

"With what broom?" I challenge, glancing pointedly to his empty hands.

 **"Dorothy-"** Tom begins lowly.

 **"Oh, come on, it's just flying,"** I interrupt him, already knowing what he's going to say. **"There aren't going to be any bludgers or shite trying to hit me this time."**

 **"Whatever happened to not caring about what they thought?"** He hisses, dark eyes narrowed.

 **"Whatever happened to wanting to show up the purebloods?"** I counter without hesitation.

"It's rude to exclude others from a conversation, you know," Avery says with a heavy frown.

"It's rude to try to eavesdrop on a private conversation too," I fire back.

 **"You shouldn't lower yourself to their level,"** Tom completely dismisses the others' presence, trying to appeal to my pride and perhaps judgmental views on kids who act their true age. **"They will know our superiority in due time."**

I purse my lips in thought. Putting aside his concerning Superiority Complex for the time...As much I hate to admit it to even myself, and love to say that don't care about other's opinions on me...I suppose I have _one_ fuck to give. After all, if I was truly, wholly indifferent, then I wouldn't have gotten so angry about them dismissing my Quidditch potential in the first place, would I? Because I _do._ I _want_ to prove Malfoy and every other sexist man that I can not only be _as good,_ but _better_ than them. And I don't want to wait until fucking _next year_ either if I can help it.

(The plausible childishness of my actions, for wanting to beat a _child_ so damn much and raising to their bait puts a sour taste in my mouth. Aren't I supposed to be the mature one here?

...Am _I_ insecure?)

"I'll even be generous as to use one of the school brooms," Malfoy adds when I don't speak, smug and arrogant as can be. "Give you at least a _small_ chance of beating me," he smirks.

_'Fuck it. I've already attempted shoving mud in an eight year old's mouth because he shoved me down in a puddle of it.'_

"You're on," I tell Malfoy.

**"Dorothy!"**

**"Let me do this,"** I do _not_ beg Tom. **"It's just flying. Look, I'll even-"** I grimace, already hating myself **"-You'll get one go-to-the-hospital-free card, alright?"**

Tom pauses, considering me in a new light. **"This race is that important to you?"** He questions, voice thick with suspicion.

 **"Yes,"** I admit grudgingly.

Tom tilts his chin higher, a calculating gleam in his dark eyes that causes unease to twist my insides. I know that look; the look that says I'm going to regret my earlier words.

 **"I want _ten_ hospital cards, and to make adjustments on how you will be flying thenceforth," **the greedy prat crosses his arms, an arrogant smirk pulling on his lips.

I gape. **_"Ten?_ Fuck no! You can have _two_ and we'll _discuss_ and _agree_ on possible changes _after_ the race!"**

"Ha! Even your _brother_ doesn't think you can do it, Riddle," Avery sneers, but although he sounds confident in his findings, his eyes still flicker between the two of us as if to make sure he guessed correctly.

The curve of Tom's lips turns cruel as he faces the others. "Oh, no," he purrs, "We were simply discussing the winner's prize."

"Whether Abraxas or she will win?" Avery assumes.

Tom's smile widens. "No, whether or not Malfoy will _cry_ when he loses. I was thinking of having Dorothy do my Herbology homework for me, but..."

"A Malfoy does not _cry!"_ Malfoy flushes, sounding too quick and sharp for it to be his own words. "If anyone will be crying, it'll be _you_ ," he fires back at me.

"Of course," Tom and I agree smoothly, mockingly.

And so that's how the four of us end up at the Quidditch field, minutes away from suppertime and catching the tail end of the Hufflepuff's practise session. With the shed's key that Spademan gave me earlier -the shed being spelled to repel _Alohmora-_ Malfoy is able to grab a used broom, in the same manner of Tom being forced to clean dirty toilets.

_('Such a spoiled prat. Wonder if he's as much as a germaphobe as Tom is?')_

The starting line and race of one lap is agreed upon, and so Malfoy and I mount our brooms with Tom and Avery watching from the sidelines.

"Try not to be too hard on yourself when you lose, Riddle," Malfoy jeers from my right.

"Ready?" Tom asks loudly. "Ready..."

My smile is all teeth. "You took the words right out of my mouth, Malfoy."

"Set..."

I flex my fingers on my broom, shifting my footing as I bend my knees for take off.

"GO!"


	13. Year 1: Wands, Teeth, And Animals Galore

_Dear Little Brother,_

_I'd like to think that one of the reasons why I was slow on the uptake, when this body was but a wee snot nosed infant, is because people's appearance didn't meet my_ _expectations. Granted; I'm in the grandparent's generation, and aside from the memories that Harry saw in his Sixth Year you didn't get to see much of the people that lived then. Hell, most remained unnamed background characters -used to just take up space, honestly, and you were lucky to get certain ones' surnames. Forgot physical description!_

_(Plus I barely remember the_ Fantastical Beasts _movie_ _as it is_ _and I never bothered with the sequel_ The Curse of Grindelwald, _so that did fuck all to help me either.)_

 _Where was I going with this? Right. Characters' -ahem,_ people's- _appearances. Point is, Tommy, that in the early years you looked like a red, angry potato and shite else. An adorably red, angry potato, but a red and angry potato all the same. Later on you grow to look eerily similar to the actor in the movies, and Abraxas Malfoy is as pale and pointy as I remember his future grandson to be portrayed as. I think I recall Harry commenting Dumbledore's god awful plum suit that he had worn when we first met him, but don't quote me on it._

_I can't remember what Tom the Bartender was supposed to look like in either the books or movies, but I do know that him and Ollivander Jr. were old men in Harry's time so it wouldn't be fair to assume that they would look the same anyways. Same for Professor Slughorn and Dumbles..._

_I swear I had a point to this letter. I'm kinda all over the place, aren't I? (I can already see your eye twitching, heh.)_

_Right. Well, just ignore everything I wrote before now for the most part. What I really want to talk about is one individual specially; Minerva "badarse" McGonagall._

_(As a self-proclaimed Potterhead, there are a few things that any fan is absolutely_ required _to do if there to actually find themselves in the Harry Potter universe._

 _Attending fucking Hogwarts is obviously on the top, but there are others that don't fall in any particular order. Such as meeting their favourite characters, pulling a prank with Peeves, exploring the Chamber of Secrets, eating Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, saving Sirius Black from his wretched, shitty death, witness Draco Malfoy turn into a fucking ferret, fly on a broom stick, punch both Dumbledore _and _Severus Snape in the face, become an Animagus, and cast the patronus spell just to name a few._

_While I either can do or already have done a fair bit of them, there are certain ones that I can't due to the shitty timeline I was reborn into. Like meeting the Weasley twins, those lovable bastards, or any of the Marauders for example. Although I might just be able to in future, so long as I live fucking long enough. (Looking at you, Sun.) But I digress._

_You know who_ is _around the same age of us, though?_

_You guessed it, Minerva McGonagall.)_

_The witch that not only handled but stuck fear into the unrepentantly mischievous Marauders and Weasley twins, who never expected Harry clean up the shitty adults' mess, who defended Hogwarts until the end and who took_ four _fucking stunners in the chest in her late sixties/early seventies!_

_Both in the movies and novels, she was d_ _ark haired with some silver strands, all pulled into a tight bun. She was said to be a stern but fair Professor, one that you didn't want to cross but who didn't have a stick up her arse quite as far as Snape did. Like the type of Professor that would scold you for getting into mischief but secretly laugh about your antics with the other Professors behind closed doors._

_It was a shock and absolute delight of equal measure to meet the kid-version of her._

_(Oh, the things her future students will never know-)_

_I loved that woman as Olivia, would have asked her to be my partner for the Yule Ball myself! In fact, I distantly recall dressing up as her for Halloween as Olivia once._

_And now I get the_ privilege _of watching her grow up to become that same woman!_

_I can officially die happy now._

_(Ps: You make an absolutely fantastic Bambi.)_

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**September 26th, 1938.**

"A bike helmet? What do you need that for?" Armstrong, Barbara's older sister, wonders.

Thanks to Spademan, who is in the same year as she is and therefore shares certain classes with her, Tom and I were able to corner her as the last class before the day lets out. Though truthfully I don't think Spademan knows Armstrong's schedule solely because it aligns with his own at times. You know, considering how we first tried staking out her flower arrangement -yes, fucking _flower arrangement-_ club yesterday like when we borrowed her camera, but either the club's meeting location changed or it was cancelled because no one had showed. Which is why we had to go back and ask when the best time to ambush -ahem, _meet-_ with her was, 'cause Barbara is useless and knows shite about her own sister's classes.

Based on how suspiciously red Spademan's ears had burned when I questioned him on how he knew about Armstrong's extracurricular activities, I think Spademan _likes_ her.

(It's fucking adorable and definitely something to keep in mind for future use.)

"Dorothy is practicing Quidditch, and we believe that it would be best if she could wear some protection as she does so," Tom explains pleasantly. "Your sister mentioned how you would go biking with your muggle grandparents during the holidays?"

Her brows raise in surprise, looking at me with in a new light. _"You're_ the First Year Spademan's been teaching?"

"Spademan's been talking about me?"

"Ah, well, not exactly," she falters. "But his friend mentioned it once. Wanted me go watch him."

So Spademan has a wingman already, then. Interesting; I didn't think Spademan had any friends. Not in Slytherin at least.

"But are you sure it's safe?" Armstrong worries, looking concerned. "Quidditch is a very dangerous sport, you know. And you're...Well..."

"So you think I can't do it?" The question comes out sharper than intended, and Armstrong takes half a step back.

"No, no -I think it's wonderful that you're trying- I'm friends with Edna Hill, she's on the Ravenclaw team, you know -but, well, shouldn't you wait until you're older at least? Edna only joined last year in her Fifth Year, and I'm afraid those nasty bludgers are a bit too much while you're so small..."

"That's why we're searching for the proper protection," Tom flashes her a charming smile. "Of course, we'll also be enforcing it with magic."

I relax. My Housemates words must be getting to me; the boys' jeers -not just in our year, either- and how often I feel Shafiq's and the other player's burning holes into me...Not to mention Malfoy and I's unresolved racing match. It ended up a tie, though we both argued about the winner for ages -I was _this close_ to punching his arrogant, elitist mug- and we are about to a have second go when Professor Wood came over and kicked us off the field.

Arsehole.

Originally we were going to have the rematch yesterday, but the other First Year caught wind it during supper and somehow it was pushed to after the first Quidditch match of the year, so that we're guaranteed a window of time on the field without the different Teams hogging it.

Spademan wasn't pleased when he found out himself, lectured my ear off about how dumb I am and what a "Gryffindor thing do to" it was, losing my temper like I did -but he didn't try to stop me, either. In fact, with a gleam in his eye, he ended up promising to get me a better broom than the shite kind I'm currently borrowing. Because even though Malfoy offered to use a school one himself, he won't be doing it again. Not when our first match was a tie.

"Yourself?" Armstrong questions.

"With a Professor's help, of course," Tom assures her, only half lying.

We _will_ go to a Professor for help... _If_ we can't do it ourselves.

"I see," she smiles a little. "Well, I think I still have my old helmet that'll fit you somewhere in the house. I'll ask my parents to send it over."

Later on, when Barbara receives a package one morning with a note attached to it, Tom and I will spend hours casting and recasting protective enchantments on glass cups before dropping them from the top of the moving staircases. We take turns repairing the glasses until, finally, with our combined efforts five glasses in a row are able to survive the great fall.

"That would have been _your_ skull if you didn't have me," Tom tells me while we're still experimenting.

Staring at the stainless pieces of shattered glass on the marble floor, I can't help but feel a little sick.

* * *

**September 29th, 1938.**

Thursday afternoon finds Tom and I sitting at the front of DADA class with the Hufflepuffs. The assignment is to pair off into two and complete the chapter's questions -giving me flashes of past science and social classes back in High School- and because Tom wants to do some networking, he claimed Black and I was made to work with one of the Hufflepuffs, Constance "Connie" Simmons.

 _After_ looking like a lost little duck, left stranded until Professor Merrythought stepped in. (I should probably try to make some friends outside of Tom and Lilith, so that at the very least I don't end up looking so fucking pathetic without Tom again.)

At the desks two rows behind me, I notice that Rosier the Girl is playing with her hair while Nott does both their shares. I look away, because while I'm a filthy hypocrite, I'm not _that_ kind of hypocrite.

Getting after kids who peak through their fingers during games? Scolding Tom for his sticky fingers, when I did it every time at connivance store in my first life? Without a lick of shame.

But you won't be finding me chasing out those that use their friends and families to skip a line, or blatantly cheat off their friends (with permission) for schoolwork. I'll even defend them to the fuckers that raise a fuss about it.

"Alright, everyone. Put away your textbooks, and those that aren't finished should be so before next class on Tuesday. But before you lot leave I have an announcement," Professor Merrythought informs us, and all at once the class waits with varying levels of interest.

"Are you cancelling homework for the rest of the year?" Avery -completely ignoring the Professor's eariler words- asks loudly, grinning to his desk mates Malfoy and Rosier the Boy.

Professor Merrythought seems faintly amused. "I'm afraid not. In fact, it might be considered extra work-"

The whole class collectively groans.

"-For, starting tomorrow evening, I will be opening the Dueling club for the First and Second Years."

_'Excuse moi?'_

Tom and I share a wide-eyed look, even with the rows between us and as the class lets out gasps and excited remarks. It takes a while before the Professor can settle the other students enough to be heard again:

"Some of you have older siblings, and so might know that until now, only Third Years and older were allowed to join. However, due to recent events-" she carefully doesn't look at either Tom or I, but our fellow First Years glance in our direction all the same "-I thought it would be best If I allowed everyone the chance to learn and experience proper dueling. That being said, First and Second Years _will not_ be permitted to spar. You will be learning dueling etiquette and defensive spells _only."_

"But my older cousin said he learned the knee-reversal hex at the club!" Lestrange protests immediately, the other purebloods murmuring their agreements, not unlike a crew of restless sailors considering mutiny.

"I have taught the hex to my older students before," Professor Merrythought admits patiently, "However you aren't old enough for that type of magic yet. It is a Fifth Year spell."

Cue more grumbling of dissatisfied, slightly blood thirsty eleven year olds. Tom's hand shoots up and, with a small smile, Professor Merrythought gestures for him to speak.

"Professor, where will be this club be taking place?" he inquires politely.

"It will take place by the portraits of the mountains, in the dungeons. I have also posted a notice in each of your Houses' common room. It has all of the information for where and when. If you have trouble finding the room I would suggest asking an older member to show you the way." Just as she finishes speaking the bell rings, and the students scramble to leave for the day.

Tom and I instantly find each other, listening to the other Slytherin's excited chatter.

"My Father has a Masters in Dueling, you know," Lestrange reminds his friends arrogantly. "He got it when he was only twenty years old, and said he would teach me all he knows over the holidays and summer." And, just because he couldn't resist, he adds towards Tom; "What about you, Riddle? Did your Father ever teach you anything? Oh! Right, I forgot -he's a muggle."

A few snickers from the Rosier twins and Malfoy.

"Well, I can't be sure of my talent for dueling yet, but I'm sure I can't be too bad having mastered multitudes of spells before arriving here at Hogwarts, playing with fire being one of them," he responds with mock humility, eyes glinting with the challenge.

"It's true!" Lilith pipes in before Lestrange can argue. "Dorothy showed Barbara and I wandless summoning! It's a Fourth Year Spell!"

"Shut up, halfblood," Rosier the Girl snarls, red in the face.

Lilith frowns at her, and Nott stays silent, as if trying to her best not to draw anyone's attention.

"Well, the summoning charm isn't going to help you in a fight, is it?" Lestrange glares at us, clearly off putted and mad about it.

My smile is shark-like. "Oh, I don't know about that. I can think of a few things to... _Summon_ that would definitely hurt," I purr, taking half a step closer as he unwittingly tries to distance himself.

"Lydia, didn't you say that your older brother joined the club this year?" Rosier the Girl suddenly switches topics, causing the girl to startle.

"Um. That's right. He was really excited about it this summer," she says hesitantly.

"So, I take it you two will be joining?" Lilith addresses Tom and I.

"Of course," we answer immediately, simultaneously.

_'What a dumb question!'_

Lilith cracks a smile for our "twin speak."

"What about you? Will you?" I return.

Her smile falters. "Oh, um, actually-"

Rosier the Girl scoffs. "A lady doesn't _duel._ But I suppose it wouldn't be fair to expect any of you _halfbloods_ to know of that, can we?" She turns to Nott, though is still speaking to us; "I do admit of being crossed with my Mother at times, but then I look at how _they_ turned out without proper guidance and I shudder. Don't you agree, Lydia?"

"Yes."

"We're actually _half-pureblooded,"_ Tom corrects her, dark satisfaction underlying every word. "Though I do understand how one such as you can confuse the two."

Multiple prats protest:

"You can't be _half-pureblooded!"_

"That's right!"

"That doesn't exist!"

"I suggest doing your research then, because you have clearly been misinformed," Tom responds simply, hiding his glee.

"And I'd rather be 'unladylike' then fucking dead in a dark alley," I sneer, adding my two cents in.

Rosier the Girl side eyes me, smirking. "Well, someone will have to take one for the team eventually, won't they?"

 _'Oh, that_ bitch-'

"Lydia! Oi, LYDIA!"

Our group collectively turns to see the person shouting on the other side of hallway. Darren Nott picks up his pace to meet us, two other Third Years trailing behind him.

"Darren?" Nott the Girl questions.

"Is it true that Professor Merrythought is letting the First and Second Years in the Dueling Club?" He demands.

"Yeah!" Avery answers in her stead. "We just finished DADA, and she told us! But she said that we'd only be learning dumb defensive magic," he adds, scowling.

Nott the Boy, who had been frowning up until now, seems a bit appeased over Avery's words. "Well, you have to learn the basics before you get to learn the more powerful spells," he tells us smartly, assured that he wouldn't be limited like us. "I take it that you lot will be joining, then?" he asks the pureblooded boys.

Avery opens his mouth, but shuts it when Lestrange beats him to it:

"We'll check it out, but I doubt the Professor has much to teach us," he says brattishly. "We're not a bunch of mudbloods, after all."

One of Nott the Boy's friends chimes in, glowering at Lestrange; "Professor Merrythought is a good instructor. She has a Masters, you know. Won second place in the national competition two years ago."

Buddy #2 nudges #1 with his elbow, grinning ear to ear. "Got a crush on her, eh, Rick?"

Buddy #1 flushes a deep red, sputtering and shoving the other; "I do not! Shut up, Howard!"

"What about you?" Nott the Boy switches his attention to Tom, completely ignoring the bickering behind him.

"Darren, is there such a thing as a _half-pureblood?"_ Malfoy demands. "The Riddles claim that they are, but none of us have heard it before!"

"Yeah!"

"I'm sure either my Father or Mother would have told me if it did!"

Nott the Boy blinks in mild surprise from the sudden commotion. He glances at Tom and I, frowning. "I suppose they would be," he allows slowly. "It's not nearly has... _Common_ as halfbloods and blood traitors, but half-purebloods _do_ exist."

I can't resist sticking my tongue at the prats. _'Suck it!'_

"Thank you, Nott," Tom dips his head in the Third Year's direction. "And yes, both Dorothy and I will be joining the Dueling Club tomorrow. I believe you started it this month yourself?"

"Three weeks," he confirms with subtle pride. "Professor Merrythought said last session that she'll be teaching the Third Years the _Immobulus_ charm soon. I suppose I shouldn't be surprise that _you'd_ be interested in this type of thing," he adds towards me.

I decide to take his words as a compliment and not the jab it was meant as. "Of course, I can't wait to serve gits their areses' on a silver platter."

Buddy #2 chokes on his laughter, and I grin at him.

Before anyone has the chance to lecture me or take issue with my language, Tom takes my hand and informs everyone; "If you'll excuse us, Dorothy and I will be in the library."

We end up skipping supper, too consumed with the books we checked out from the library and squirreling away in our usual abandoned classroom. Spademan finds us as we're leafing though _101 Ways To BeWitch Your Friends_ and jotting down the ones we like, wanting to know the same thing that Nott the Boy did:

Is it true that the Dueling Club is opened for the First and Second Years, and are we joining?

"Who the fuck do you take us for?" I demand with mock offense.

Spademan snorts, giving me a dry look. "The dottiest First Years I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

"Do not lump me in with Dorothy," Tom sniffed, eyes dancing with mirth.

"My apologies," Spademan dipped his head towards Tom.

_"Anteoculatia."_

Spademan manages to dodge my hex, unfortunately, but Tom -who is sitting directly beside me- _doesn't._

"Dorothy!" he cries out, outraged as antlers rapidly sprout from his head, to the point that they become too heavy for him to lift his head off the ground.

I burst out laughing, my sides aching even after he throws out his hand in a fit, sending a wave of wandless magic to blast me off my chair and onto the hard stone floor.

Spademan sighs.

It takes a couple minutes for Spademan to calm down Tom enough to reverse the spell, and even longer for me to catch my breath. The adorable scowl twisting Tom's expression and the petty kick he sends my way while I'm still laying on the ground doesn't help.

"Pfff," I cover my mouth, trying to stifle my chuckles as I glance at the sulking boy at the desk.

 **"I will get you back for this,"** he hisses at me.

My grin widens. **"I look forward to it."**

Before Spademan leaves he shows us the shield charm, and it's on our second trip to the library that we end up running into Nott the Boy again. After Tom chats him up, with the right amount of proper awe over his tales of his own (limited) experience in the Club and subtle flattery, Nott ends up offering to lend a book on hexes and jinxes to us (-ahem, to _Tom-)_.

Which we take, _obviously._

And that's how Tom and I end up holed up researching and practising spells until curfew, and findings two plates of steaming food on Tom's bed curtsy of the House Elves.

_'I love them.'_

* * *

**September 30th, 1938.**

"Dorothy! Stop this nonsense already!"

 _"Never!"_ I hiss, clutching it close to my chest as I dash towards the other side of the four poster bed, Tom glaring me as I do so. "You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands!"

"You're being utterly ridiculous! It's not such a big deal-"

"If it's 'not such a big deal,' then why the fuck are you trying to steal it from me? Why are you fighting me on this?" I retort. "Mmm?"

He looks up to the ceiling briefly, as if praying to the heavens for patience. "As I've already told you, if we wish to fit in the upper society-"

"-Which I give zero fucks about-"

 _"-Dorothy!"_ he snaps, irritation rapidly building to the point of having red blotches on his pale cheeks. "Can you not shut up for _one second?"_

"Um. Are the two of you alright...?"

Both Tom and I tear our eyes off each other in order to stare at Black, who is standing awkwardly at the doorway. He shrinks into himself, avoiding our gazes' directly as he flushes prettily.

"Ah, well, the meetings about to begin soon, so I...My apologies, I'll just-"

Tom takes advantage of Black's social inadequateness to launch himself over the bed, and I barely have enough time to squeak in surprise and scramble out of the way.

_"Accio Doroth-"_

_"Accio Tom's shoe!"_

He squawks as both of his legs give out from under him, straight out as his shoes fly towards me at lights speed and he smacks against the carpeted floor.

I wince, both for how the force of the flying shoes leave my right hand and arm stinging, and the sound of Tom's head hitting the ground. "Sorry," I tell Tom, only _partly_ apologetic as I fight against my mild amusement. He hisses while clutching the back of his head and body curled in itself. "I panicked."

From between his arms he glares up at me, a silent promise of vengeance in his narrowed eye.

"Pff-!" Black's little laugh ends up as a coughing fit, fist unable to completely hide his smirk even as he evades Tom's dark look. He clears his throat; "What are the two of you doing?"

"Well, _I'm_ trying to protect my fucking property-"

"My things are in there, too!" Tom cuts me off indigently, gathering himself and stalking closer.

I smoothly place a startled Black between the two of us, griping the boy's left arm to keep him there.

"Yeah, but it's still _my_ bag!" I return. "Besides, aren't boys supposed to be embarrassed about carrying purses? Do you _really_ want to be seen carrying my purse, Tommy?"

 **"It's a** _ **handbag,"** _he points out smartly, **"And it won't seem odd at all. You've seen the others; the pureblooded wizards are always carrying the witches' things. It seems odder for us to be the only exception!"**

"Not their personal bags, though, and a handbag is one!" I argue stubbornly.

Tom grounds his teeth, looking as if he wishes to plummet me with a baseball bat.

"Wait, what are you saying?" Black questions Tom, head swerving between the two of us. "Whats this about her handbag?"

"Tom insists on carrying _my_ bag for whatever Gods forsaken reason, but I don't fucking want him to," I explain, snorting at Tom's facial expression.

Black only seems _more_ lost, the poor sod. "Doesn't it have an expansion charm on it...?"

"Exactly," I add smugly. "And a featherlight charm, too. There isn't any reason for Tom to take it."

 **"This isn't over,"** Tom hisses to me angrily before turning to Black. (As if he hadn't just made a fool of himself, first by launching over his bed and then falling arse down on the floor. Yes, the perfect picture of a put-together, well groomed, polite and educated young man. What else would he be?) "Forget it. Black, you mentioned that Dueling Club is about to begin?"

"Um. That's right. Spademan and Darren are waiting for you in the common room. Darren mentioned something about walking with you, and having you return his book?" he shifts from under my grasp, still being used as a meat shield.

"Very well," Tom says, collecting his shoes and straightening his collar. "We shouldn't keep them waiting, then."

I wait for Tom to pass us, keeping Black between us at all times In case he tries to get a last cheap shot in, before letting Black go and following behind.

Right before I leave the doorway, though, the tie wrapped around my neck suddenly jerks forward, causing me to stumble and landing on the ground a sputtering mess.

I catch Tom's -the petty little shite's- smirk right as he turns the corner.

"Are you alright?" Black pauses, alarmed as he stares down at me.

I spare him only a fleeting glance as I scowl and chase after my brother, only to come to a screeching halt when I notice the bastard smiling smugly from slightly behind Spademan. I flip him the bird.

Tom's smirk widens.

"Knock it off, you two," Spademan chastises mildly as he covers my rude gesture. "We're going to be late as it is."

I snort. Late my arse; Spademan considers not being fifteen minutes early as _"late."_ As it is, we'll make it on time. "Whatever," I say as I shake his hand off and fall into step as the group starts leaving the common room.

"Are the two of you ready?" Spademan eyes us. "How much progress did the two of you manage?"

"Of course," Tom responds smoothly, as if it isn't even a question. "Thanks to you and Nott we are able to get a decent practise in."

"Ah, right, speaking of -here," I dig through my handbag a little before thrusting book of hexes and jinxes to Nott, who is walking ahead of me.

Nott takes it, tucking it under his right arm. "Which ones did you practice?" he inquires with fax politeness.

My smile is all teeth. "You'll have to wait and see," I sing, cackling at his sour expression.

"You do know that Professor Merrythought isn't going to let you duel, right?" he frowns, a small bite to his words. "I heard that she's going to separate the First and Second from the upper Years. You'll most likely only be practising _Expelliarmus_ and the shield charm. That's what the Third Years had to master the first couple of weeks."

I shrug off my disappointment. "It's a good thing that Tom and I already know them, then."

Not much small talk is made as we stroll the Dueling Club, located in the dungeons and behind a misleading, simple wooden door.

The other side reveals a decent sized ballroom, with stone walls, large, arching glass windows, a grand chandler, dome-like ceiling and with the dance floor being a few steps lower than the eight feet surrounding it on all four walls, creating mini balconies with stone railings.

There's fair amount of students on the dance floor, maybe around thirty-five as they break off into smaller groups of Years and friends. Most of the crowd consists of other First or Second Years. Frowning, I don't think there's more than five other girls present. In the middle of it I spot Professor Merrythought speaking to an older student. She smiles warmly when she looks up, waving us down.

She nods to Spademan and Black once we've come down -Nott having left us to meet with his friends. "How are you?" she asks Tom and I kindly.

"Wonderful," Tom offers her big, childish grin. "We're very excited to learn from you, Professor. Thank you for allowing us the opportunity."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all, Mr. Riddle. Like I told you yesterday; I daresay that everyone should have the chance to learn the art of dueling. Mr. Black, how about you? I didn't think I'd be seeing you today -but I'm glad that I was wrong."

Black flushes mildly from the attention, staring down at his shoes. I can't help but notice that, while not nearly as shy as Barbara, he never seems to know how to react when given praise or positive attention from adults. "I thought I should at least check it out," he murmurs.

"Of course. The more the merrier!" Professor Merrythought replies. She looks up at the sound of the door opening and a few late stranglers sneaking in. "Well, it's about time we should start. Everyone!" she calls out loudly.

The chatting students hush and turn to face the smiling Professor.

"I'm happy to see quite a few new faces this day. Now, I'd like for everyone to stand against the far side across from me."

We all shuffle to do as told, Tom and I squeezing our way to the front.

"Mr. Mason, if you would be so kind," she waves her hand in a 'come here' gesture, and a short Seventh Year boy with freckles, square glasses, Gryffindor robes and the Head Boy badge steps forward.

Facing each other five feet apart, Professor Merrythought continues; "Now, for now the First and Second years will be working on disarming your opponent only. Watch closely, now, you'll raise your wand like this-" she lifts her arm a notch, wand posed to swish and flick in front of her and elbow close to her chest "-and say _Expelliarmus_ while moving your wand like so. Make sure your legs are slight apart for a good base, or else you might fall. _Expelliarmus!"_

She flicks her wand sharply, scarlet light shooting from the tip and hitting Mason's wand hand dead on. Mason's entire arm jerks and his wand clatters onto the polished floor.

"Third to Seventh Years, you'll have a free period today to practise what you already know and fine-toon your skills. Charms, hexes, and jinxes only. No curses. Mr. Mason and I will walk around and help anyone in need. Any questions?"

More than one hand for the younger years go up.

"Yes, Mr. O'Dell?"

"Can you show us the wand movement again?"

"Of course."

Professor Merrythought demonstrates the spell twice more, and then starts pairing us off. Naturally Tom and I automatically gravitate towards each other, already searching for an empty space large enough when Professor Merrythought comes to us with a Gryffindor Second Year girl at her heels.

"I'm sorry to break the two of you up, but I think it would be better if Miss Riddle partnered with Miss McGonagall here," she smiles.

 _'Wait-'_ my eyes snap towards the Gryffindor girl, heart stuttering as realization washes over me.

She has long raven hair tied in a low ponytail, almond shaped eyes staring back at me impassively. She's quite tall for a twelve-thirteen year old, two and a half heads taller than Tom and I and standing just below Professor Merrythought's shoulder.

In the corner of my eye I faintly notice Tom trying to share a look with me, but I just can't seem to look away from _the_ Minerva McGonagall.

Clarissa would _kill_ to be me right now.

A lot of Potterheads would.

Little McGongall raising a brow at me knocks me out of my stupor, and a nervous giggle escapes my lips to my deep embarrassment. "Oh -yeah! Of course! Sorry, I -ah, my name's Riddle- I mean Dorothy. Dorothy Riddle. But please call me Dorothy."

God, kill me know.

"Minerva," she returns in bemusement.

Yup. Really feeling like a smooth fucker 'bout now. Is this how Barbara feels all the time? How awful.

"I suppose I'll find Black, then," Tom tells me, otherwise arching a brow for my strange reaction.

I feel heat creeping up my neck. I cough, avoiding anyone's eye as I gesture to a modest free space a couple feet away. "Do you want to practice over there, McG -ah, Minerva?"

"Sounds good," she responses simply and heads straight there.

"Well! I'll leave you kids to it!" Professor Merrythought says brightly before leaving.

I go join _Minerva McGonagall,_ standing across from her awkwardly for a moment, before she asks:

"Do you want to go first, then?"

"Yeah! Sorry -I, um, I'll just start?" I fumble, still reeling that this is _Minerva fucking McGonagall._ I grip my wand, raising it in front of me as I shout; _"Expelliarmus!"_

I thank mercy that I didn't fuck up in front of her, beaming as she tells me a mild "good job."

Then it's her turn, and can I just say _fucking ouch?_ I thought maybe it was just Tom -but, nope, the fucking spell is apparently _supposed_ to send fucking painful, little shocks skittering down your arm to your spasming hand.

 _'I do not like this one,'_ I grouse to myself, even as I hide my grimace and flex my hand. I suppose I'll just have to build up a tolerance, won't I?

_'I wonder if Harry ever got to be on the receiving end of his favourite spell, a supposedly pacifist one?'_

"Do you know the shield charm?" I ask Minerva after we've gone again.

She seems surprised, but pleased. "Yes! Do you?"

I nod my head. "Spademan -our Prefect- taught Tom and I last night. We used it to practise other spells as well."

"Do you want to practise it now?"

I heartily agree, and that's how Professor Merrythought finds the two of us as she makes her rounds.

"Oh! Doing that already, are we?"

Minerva finishes her second _Expelliarmus_ , trying to crack my slowly dissolving shield, and the both of us turn to face the Professor, Minerva a little sheepish having been caught.

"When did you learn this?" The Professor asks me kindly.

"Spademan showed Tom and I last night, when we were practising for today," I answer dutifully.

"Your shield is strong from what I can tell, very impressive after only one day!" Professor Merrythought praises as a warm glow expands in my chest. "But we're not doing that quiet yet, so I'll have to ask the both of you to use disarming only for now, alright?"

"Sorry, Professor," Minerva says, sounding only a _little_ apologetic.

"It's alright, Miss McGonagall. Just keep practising the disarming spell."

A few more minutes of back and forth, and just when my nerves on my left side is becoming worriedly numb, Professor Merrythought calls all the First and Second Years to gather and watch her again.

She shows us the shield charm, which I tune out for the most part. We practise that and _Expelliarmus_ until the seven-thirty mark, in which the Professor informs us that we're done for the day, however if we want we can stay for the next hour to watch the dueling matches among the upper Years.

Only two students leave.

The rest of us are instructed to stay on the balconies, and a pleased-with-himself Tom and less so pleased Black finds Minerva and I. Professor Merrythought asks those in the upper Years to write their names on a slip of paper and put it in the magicked cauldron in her arms, and they line up single file to do so. They shortly join us First and Second Years.

Names are chosen at random, the first being a Fourth Year Gryffindor and Sixth Year Hufflepuff. The match is quick and swift, all thanks to the Hufflepuff defeating the frustrated Gryffindor with a single jinx; _Ducklifors._

The entire crowd laughs and hoots as the multitude of angry ducks start filling the dance floor, and the Gryffindor having to do his walk of shame, red eared, up the stairs after Professor Merrythought calls the match and takes care of the ducks.

"Wasn't that one in _101 Ways To BeWitch Your Friends?"_ I nudge Tom, whispering.

Tom nods his head, before shooting me a death stare. "You do that to me, and you won't like the consequences."

I pat his back mockingly, grinning; "Don't worry, you make a much better Bambi anyways."

"A what?"

I shush him, watching as the Professor calls out two new people; a Seventh Year Gryffindor and a dirty blond, lean and handsome Sixth Year Ravenclaw, "Kenneth Turner."

I stare, the Ravenclaw confidently walking down to the dance floor, and poising his wand in front of him with his other arm behind his back. I glance to my right, almost snorting at Tom's disgusted expression.

 **"Did you just _check him out?"_** He asks me incredulous, sounding the same as he looks.

I shrug wordlessly, biting back a smile as I turn my head away.

 **"You are _eleven,"_** he reminds me sharply. **"Didn't you say yourself that it isn't proper to date until sixteen years old?"**

 **"Doesn't mean that I can't _look,_ though," **I remark in amusement.

Tom only seems increasingly, thoroughly done with me.

"So it's true? You really can-?"

I forgot that Minerva hadn't actually heard Parseltongue -or is used to it-, unlike my Housemates, but to my relieve she seems more fascinated than appalled.

_'Voldemort really did give Parselmouths a bad name, didn't he?'_

**"Yes,"** I hiss to her for show.

"Guys," Black reminds us, the same time the second match officially starts.

We must have missed the bowing part, for the two go straight for it. There isn't nearly as much shouting as the last one, the two able to do a little nonverbal, but there is still _some._

_"Relashio!"_

_"Flipendo!"_

_"Confundus!"_

_"Locomotor Mortis!"_

_"Langlock!"_

_"Slugulus Eructo!"_

The Gryffindor gets a lucky shot in, hitting Turner on the shoulder and causing him to gag and start vomiting slugs.

Fucking _gross._ I'm getting nauseous just watching.

"Oh, that's disgusting." Agreeing with me, Minerva comments beside me.

"Think it's a favourite of Professor Slughorn's?" I muse.

Black turns his laugh into a cough, Tom having no reservations over hiding his mirth.

"That's mean," Minerva tells me, but I can tell she thinks I'm funny too.

I grin at her.

Professor Merrythought steps forward, just about to call the match in the Gryffindor's favour when Turner heaves and chokes out something unintelligible with his wand pointed.

Nothing happens at first, the Gryffindor freezing and blinking shock, and the crowd quieting and leaning forward with anticipation. Just when the Gryffindor relaxes, begins to laugh it off, his eyes widen in alarm and his legs buckle from underneath him. The next thing we know two wildly, abnormally large flopping fish tails has replaced his legs.

People scream.

The Gryffindor in fear, and everyone else in delight.

"Mr. Turner!" Red-faced and all but steaming from the ears, Professor Merrythought marches over to the still gasping and vomiting Sixth Year Ravenclaw. She tsks, hauling him up by one arm. "I've told you countless times! No unlicensed spells before going through me and the Headmaster! Come, now -I need two more helpers for Mr. Page! Class dismissed!"

The crowed parts for her and the volunteers, undecided whether or not to talk about Turner's new spell, or grumble about Turner cutting the session short.

 _Again,_ apparently.

"Well, that was something," I say dryly. The others nods and make noises of agreement. I'm still watching the departing crowd when I notice Minerva begin to slink off, and I quickly grab her hand without thinking about it.

"Yes?" she gives me a quizzical look.

I swallow, suddenly nervous again. "Ah -sorry- but, I, ah, just wanted to ask if you want to be partners again? Next class?" I fumble, a delicate hope fluttering within me. "If you don't mind, that is."

"I don't mind," she answers with a small, bemused smile.

I beam. "Great! That's great! I'll, ah, see you next time, then?"

"Next time," she agrees, before disappearing outside the ballroom altogether.

 **"What was that about?"** Tom frowns at me.

I shrug at him, avoiding eye contact.

After the three of us -Tom, Black, and I- settle down in the common room with our weekend homework, Spademan finds us an hour and a half before curfew with a very satisfied and triumphant expression on his face.

"What?" I ask him, a little wary.

But he only gestures for us to follow him outside, leaving without checking that we would. Sharing a suspicious glance, Tom and I have no other choice but to do so.

He leads us a little ways away from the dormitory, where a Fifth Year Ravenclaw with a broomstick is waiting by a sleeping portrait. He squints at me, looking at me up and down as if looking for faults.

I arch a brow at him, hip cocked.

Disgruntled, he asks Spademan; "And you're _certain_ that she'll take good care of it?"

"Without a doubt," Spademan assures him smoothly. "You'll have it back in the exact same condition as when you left it."

"And after this we're even...?" he hedges.

Spademan flashes him a smirk. "For last year's escapade? Yes."

He grunts, clearly still displeased, but grudgingly, slowly, hands over his broom to me nonetheless. I take it with mounting bemusement.

"What was that about?" I question Spademan after his friend (-victim? Debtor?-) has left, warning me not to leave so much as a _scratch_ on it.

"I told you that I would get you a better broom for your race, didn't I?" His eyes gleam proudly. "Now, let's get some practise in before curfew."

Later on, even as I lay down to sleep with Tom, thoroughly exhausted and sweaty, I can't help but think about that second match. About Kenneth Turner, and how he tries to create his own spells.

* * *

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!

I hope ya'all are having a fantastic time and are keeping safe!

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think about the dueling club?

 **2.** Do you have an opinion on Darren Nott?

 **3.** What was your favourite part?

 **4.** What was your least favourite part?

 **5.** Did you see any mistakes?

 **6.** Do you have any questions?


	14. Year 1: Score!

_Dear Little Brother,_

_My Mum once tried to get Jacob into sports. For the publicity of course._

_She put him through soccer, football, swimming, basketball -even a couple martial arts, but none of them stuck. Sure, she'd try to twist his arm, force him to pick a sport and stick with it -but Jacob was a moody, broody individual even as a kid. (Kinda like yourself, just a lot less fucking vindictive.)_

_He would maybe give it an honest try the first couple of weeks, but he quickly lost interest and tried to drop it like a hot one. And when Mum would resist taking him out of whatever club, he would dig his heels in and refuse to participate. Eventually the coaches would have to take her aside and explain that there was nothing they could due to Jacob's stubbornness._

_Mum only stopped pestering him to find a hobby outside of gaming until Nora fell in love with dancing. I think it was when she was around six or seven, and from then on Mum would sign her up for every seasonal kid's competition so that she would be able to get all the likes and shares she felt entitled to._

_To be able to play the role of a hardworking, proud Mum, if only the strangers on the internet._

_(Because apparently my debate club wasn't "flashy" enough, and even as I tried switching to drama it "wasn't the same" due to my age. Fucking bitch.)_

_Sometimes I can't help but wonder. What would she think, if she could see me now? Would she be sitting up there, in the bleachers, with her expensive iPhone and manicured nails, waiting to film me? Would she wrap an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close, as she snaps a picture of the two of us with the golden trophy in my hands? Would my winnings be displayed in the living room for all the house guests to gaze upon?_

_Would she be_ proud?

_There's an empty feeling in my gut. A gnawing, ravenous hole that threatens to swallow me whole. To bury me under the twisting, aching pain in my chest with bitter memories of empty seats and Nora's delighted laughter as she comes back from a celebratory dinner with Mum and Mum's friends, mocking me._

_Then I fucking remember that Mum is -_ was- _a shallow bitch, and isn't worth any of the fucks I used to give as Olivia. Much less any lingering longing and childish love towards a parent, no matter how unfit, I may still have._

_Sincerely,_

_The Stranger You Call Sister_

* * *

**October 1st, 1938.**

The student body is buzzing louder than usual this Saturday morning. A _lot_ fucking louder.

Most students aren't crawling out of bed until ten o'clock during the weekends, but by the time Tom and I enter the Great Hall at nine o' four it's already completely packed. I even find a few older students running out with toast stuffed in their mouths, trying to score the "good seats."

"You ready for the match?" I grin at Tom.

He gives me a dull look. "Oh, I simply can't wait to watch as fourteen imbeciles do their best to knock each other off magical cleaning tools, attempt to brash their skulls open with flying buldgers, and desperately try to catch a tiny, shiny ball for an unknown period of time," he responds dryly.

"Oi, _I'm_ going to be flying on one of those 'magical cleaning tools' and trying to catch the tiny, shiny ball for an unknown amount of time next year," I protest with mock offence.

"I stand corrected."

_'Oh, you little prat-'_

"Dorothy! Tom! Over here!" Lilith waves us over to the First Year section, grinning.

I wave back, grabbing Tom's hand with my other and tugging him towards our spots faster. "'Morning," I tell Lilith as I sit down across from her.

"Are you looking forward to the match? This is your first one ever, right?" she comments cheerily.

"More than that, I hope you're ready to admit your incompetence afterwards," Malfoy sneers at me, Avery and Lestrange snickering at his side.

I give him a pitying look, mock concern dripping from my words; "Oh, Malfoy, I didn't you know you had a habit of talking to yourself. I know you've been having troubles lately -but I'm sure your therapist would be more than happy to help you through them."

"Therapist?" Black mouths quietly to himself.

Malfoy flushes, both in embarrassment and anger. "You won't be so proud after I beat you!" he hisses.

I only shake my head sadly. "I think his delusions are getting worse," I whisper to Tom, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"You may have tricked Spademan into helping you somehow, but that'll change tomorrow," Lestrange tells me with a snarl. "Even _he_ won't be able to ignore how inferior you are."

"That's interesting, considering that Dorothy wasn't the one who had to cry to Professor Slughorn for help last week," Tom adds in idly, calmly buttering his toast.

I couldn't bother resisting the sharp 'oink,' absolutely living for the outraged expression on their brattish faces.

"Let's go," Lestrange demands from his friends, abruptly standing from the table. "The good seats are sure to be taken quickly, and I've lost my appetite considering the _filth_ present this breakfast."

Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and the Rosier twins end up walking out with him, leaving only Tom, Black, Lilith, Barbara and I. I cheerily wiggle my fingers goodbye to the little shites' retreating back, much to their displeasure and annoyance.

 **"You're awfully calm about me isolating the purebloods,"** I muse without looking at Tom, while beginning to pile scrambled eggs onto my plate.

He finishes chewing before responding; **"I have a plan for that, fear not."**

I raise my brows, just about to ask what exactly his plan is when Lilith speaks up:

"Who do you reckon will win? Hufflepuff or Gryffindor?"

"No idea," I freely admit. "I know shite all about the Team members' skills or history, so I can't even guess what the result will be. What about you guys?"

"My sister thinks the Hufflepuffs will win, actually. She's friends with some of the players, and she said they've been training really hard for this first match," Barbara offers her two cents.

 _'Well, naturally, she_ is _a Hufflepuff herself after all.'_

Black shakes his head, disagreeing; "The Gryffindors will win. They won the Quidditch Cup last year, and even through they've lost their old captain now, they're still stronger than the Hufflepuffs. Of course, they won't be a match against Slytherin this time around."

"Where did you hear that?" Lilith asks him curiously.

Black shrugs, rolling his sausage with his fork on his plate. "Leo -Parkinson- and his mother had visited my own family in the summer, and he had complained about it during supper."

Black isn't very interested in talking about Quidditch further, and Lilith seems to have satisfied her curiosity, so conversation drifts about different topics until we've finished our meal and start heading towards the bleachers together.

I dig through my handbag and pull out my multiple layers on the way, shoving the bag in Tom's hand so that I zip up my jacket and wrap my scarf around myself.

"You truly don't like to tan, do you?" Lilith comments in bemusement.

"Nope." I adjust my winter hat before flipping my hood over it, and then pulling my thin gloves on.

"Well, I suppose it good that we live in England, don't we?"

"Yep." I try to take back my bag from Tom, only to be meet with resistance. I glare at him. _'Give it back, you prat.'_

Tom wordlessly raises his brow in challenge, but when I narrow my eyes he sighs and let's go.

I smirk.

All of the high seats are taken by the time that we arrive at the Slytherin benches, and so are most of the front seats. We manage to find a spot somewhere in the in the middle where the fucking _titans_ aren't sitting in front of us. Just as we're settling down, Lilith chatting to me and Barbara about "this cute hairstyle" she saw the other day, the hairs on the back of my neck rises the same time Tom suddenly whips around and snatches something behind me.

I turn around just in time to see Macmillan's startled expression, before he scowls and breaks Tom's grip on his wrist. "Don't touch me," he demands.

"What were you doing?" Tom and I question simultaneously, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing. Your hat was just so horrid to look at," he sneers hatefully. "I can't even see the pitch because of it!"

I deadpan, retorting flatly; "Then fucking _move._ No one is forcing you to stay."

Somehow I highly doubt there's _any_ truth to his words, other than my winter beanie being ugly. It _does_ resemble an unwelcome gift that a grandmother would give, with its red, green, and orange stripped pattern. However beggars can't be choosers, and it was the hat in the best condition I could find in the Lost & Found bin.

Besides, how did he even know what it fucking looked like with my hood up and back facing him?

Salty prat.

"But I was here first!" Macmillan protests loudly.

"Oi, shut up, Macmillan! Game's 'bout to begin, and I can't hear it over your whining!" An older student, near the top bench, snaps.

Macmillan instinctively shrinks into himself under the obvious ire.

Tom and I smirk, grin growing wider as Macmillan nearly growls with anger as he glowers back at us.

"Dorothy, let's switch seats," Lilith suggests as she stands, sounding miffed on my behalf.

Unwilling to risk my hood or hat being missed with because of Macmillan's petty revenge, I switch so that she and Barbara are between my old spot and I.

"Welcome, everybody, to the first Quidditch match of the year! Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff!" A loud but cheerful voice announces throughout the four corners of the stadium, and my eyes snap towards the announcer's box, spotting Professor Butler to my mild surprise. Through he's on the other side of the large pitch from me, I can at least tell that he has his wand against his throat, amplifying his voice for all to hear.

At the Professor's introductory; the crowd cheers and those with banners wave 'em.

I wonder if this is just a 'first match of the new school year' deal, or if every game is going to be this crazy. Although I'm as excited and sitting on the edge of my seat as the rest of them, a buzz skittering over my skin with my fingers itching for a broom of my own, to join the fourteen players flying into the pitch- I can't help but think on all the older students who have grown up in the wizarding world, and who have been exposed to Quidditch long enough for it to become mundane. Surely screaming _this_ loud is a bit of an overkill?

Like those annoying girls in amusement parks that scream just because they can, and not because the ride is _actually_ fucking scary. (Always thought they were trying too hard and gave the rest of us girls a bad name.) But maybe that's just me.

The two teams line up in formation, across from each other in the middle of the pitch. The Captains drift to the very front, shaking hands under Professor Wood's stern gaze before the whistle is blown and the game begins.

Gryffindor swipes the quaffle first, and the Chaser who caught it zooms across the field with opposing Chasers on his tail.

"Looks like Gryffindor has the quaffle first, Mr. O'Neil -OH! What a steal! Mr. Adderson has just stolen the quaffle, right under Gryffindor's nose! Can they get it back?!"

"And you're _sure_ you want to do this next year?" Tom questions me doubtfully, watching as one of the Hufflepuff Beater's shoot a buldger in the supposed 'Mr. Adderson's' direction, and as a Gryffindor Beater swiftly deflects it.

_"Yes."_

Tom purses his lips. "We'll need more protective gear," he settles on.

I roll my eyes for show, but silently agree when one Hufflepuff Chaser almost makes a Gryffindor Chaser fall with a shoulder chuck. I'm starting to think that the Seeker position is the only one where it's acceptable _-safe-_ to be small and scrawny. Everyone else seems to require a decent chip on their wide shoulders to withstand each other, that and long reaching limbs with a fair amount of muscle on their bones.

I examine my own noodle arms, frowning as I faintly remember one of Clarissa's brother's bemoaning the fact it "isn't healthy" for teenagers to start weight lifting until they're fourteen. _'Well, I suppose there's always pushups and_ _pull-ups. And the sticking charm,'_ I muse.

"Oh! A brilliant block by Hufflepuff's Keeper, Mr. Walsh! But Hufflepuff isn't in the clear yet -Mr. Gelbero has recovered the quaffle!"

"Guys! Guys! Look!" Lilith whisper yells, elbowing Tom and Barbara on either side of her as she excitedly points at one of the Ravenclaw's stands, down on the lower corner where it merges into Slytherin territory.

"What is it?" I squint my eyes, trying to pick out at she's making a fuss about.

"It's the snitch!"

Just as she says it, it flies in front of a green match where I finally spot it in the contrast.

It seems like Lilith isn't the only one to find it, either, because a Slytherin boy makes the mistake of shouting it for all the players to hear, and the back of his head gets quite the beating from fellow Slytherins as both Seeker's make a run -fly?- for it.

Sensing that it's been found, the snitch zooms elsewhere where I can't see it, but evidently the Seekers can as they chase after it.

"The snitch has been spotted!" Professor Butler exclaims loudly. "Mr. Smith and Mr Miller are hot on its tail!"

Gryffindor ends up winning, 200-60, and only forty three minutes into the game.

Since the Quidditch match ended so early, Spademan is able to squeeze in extra training session with me in between his own training and Prefect duties.

While he takes care of his responsibilities Tom and I decide to practice a few favourite hexes and jinxes we had written down. Anteoculatia has of course become one of my favourites, along with the famous bat-boogy hex (-Tom's expression had been _fucking priceless)._

Although described as non-deadly, and seen as another prank charm, the leek jinx makes me wary. Having literal leeks grow out of my ears and possibly reach my brain isn't something I'm willing to test, to which Tom agrees with me. We also put off the melofors jinx -which transfigures a person's head into a pumpkin- and slugulus eruto to first experiment on someone else in the Duelling Club.

On the other hand, cantis which bewitches a person to break out in song, obscuro, waddiwasi, repulse, the babbling curse, ebublio jinx which traps the victim in a literal bubble for a short period of time, and immobulus are all potentially very useful spells.

Once Tom had finally stopped singing after I got one last shot (read; laugh), and Tom got his own petty revenge in by turning my hair yellow, we slink down to the kitchens to eat supper before going to the dormitory.

When there we go our separate ways; Tom to his room, and I in search of a Prefect to help change my hair back to normal and to shower.

 _'Dear Tommy is going to rue the day he lifted his wand if this can't be reversed,'_ I think to myself.

Luckily Black the Prefect was more amused than annoyed by my interruption -and was able to fix it-, and none of the other First Year girls are in the bathroom when I enter.

I leave my handbag on the counter as I strip before getting inside the tub, turning the water on to a temperature hot enough to turn my pasty skin pink. I sigh, getting to work on my hair.

After my shower I towel off and change into my pyjamas, brushing my teeth and de-tangling my hair to the best of my abilities.

"Oh! Dorothy!"

I blink in surprise when as soon as I step out of the bathroom, Lilith is suddenly all up in my face, a bright, hopeful smile on her childish face.

"...Yes...?"

"I know you mentioned that you have a difficult time falling asleep without your brother, but, well, Barbara and I were hoping that you could maybe stay with us tonight?"

"What?"

"See," Lilith hurries on, dashing to her trunk to show me a muggle magazine page featuring the hottest hair style, "Barbara was showing me this muggle paper that her mother gave her the other day, and I was wondering if we could maybe have a girls night? I really want to try this style and-"

"My hair's a bit of bastard to handle," I interrupt dryly. "It's hard enough to brush it in the morning, and even then I find it's not really worth the trouble."

(I miss my old hair, with the shiny golden locks that hardly ever needed a second brush.)

But this only seems to spur Lilith more, her eye gaining a determined glint in it and she leans further into my personal space. "I'll be careful, I promise! Please, Dorothy? Just for tonight? And you can sleep in my bed, so that you aren't tired for tomorrow."

Rosier, from on top of her own bed, snorts loudly while giving Lilith and I a haughty look. "Really, Riddle, aren't you too old for this nonsense? Needing to be coddled to fall sleep? Do you carry a _nightlight_ as well? Afraid of the door being closed, and the bogarts lurking under your bed?"

"It's really pathetic," Nott tacks on smartly from beside Rosier.

"It's not her fault," Lilith tries to defend me fruitlessly. "And she's been trying, you know."

I hide a grimace, because while there has been a couple days where I slept in my own dorm, lately the attempts have been falling on the wayside. I would be chatting with Tom or doing my secret Animagus studying on his bed, and then eleven starts rolling around, then midnight starts creeping by, and at that point I'm too lazy to discourage Tom's sweet talking into staying and end up doing exactly that. And then eventually I had just...Stopped trying.

I really ought to work on that.

"Nothing to say, Riddle?" Rosier sneers.

Not really, 'cause for however much she annoys me, she _does_ have a valid point...Still, I find my mouth opening and the words spilling out before I can second think it; "Sorry, what did you say? I was too distracted by the giant zit on your forehead."

_"WHAT?!"_

I snicker even as Rosier shrieks and pushes me hard enough to stumble as she rushes into the bathroom and slams the door. Nott glances at me nervously, hesitating for a second, before joining her friend in the bathroom.

"Just give me a minute," I tell Lilith. I walk towards my bed and flip over my covers to reveal Oscar and Aaron, who the later eyes me lazily.

**'What is it, Sister-Speaker? Are we going to the other Speaker's nest now?"**

**"No. I need you to tell Tom that I'll be sleeping here tonight."**

**"Why must we?"** Oscar grumbles. **"Are you unable to tell him yourself?"**

I purse my lips, unimpressed with their behaviour. Some people might assume that just because Tom and I are able to speak Parseltongue that snakes will automatically obey us, but that's actually a load of bullshite. In reality it only enables us to listen to all the whining -snakes are surprisingly very boring and whinny creatures after all, and are closer to snotty cats than loyal dogs in nature.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be any different if we were to hatch one from birth.

**"Either go tell him or I won't let you steal my warmth for a week."**

They hiss at me to show their displeasure, but go do as told nonetheless, disappearing from the cracked bedroom door.

Just then Rosier storms back into the shared bedroom, red faced and voice as shrill as when she first left. "RIDDLE! How dare -how _dare_ you lie to me! There isn't any blemish, you-you _dirty halfblood!"_

 _'Wow,_ what _an insult-'_ While I'm in the middle of rolling my eyes Rosier whips out her wand and starts cursing me:

_"Furnunculus!"_

"Fuck!" I yelp, narrowly avoiding the golden light that ends up breaking apart on the curtain behind me.

"Druella!"

"Rosier!"

But the prat pays the others no mind, hellbent and blind to all but me.

_"Furnunculus! Furnunculus! Furnuncu-"_

_"_ _Silenico!"_ I shout, whipping out my own wand and hitting Rosier square on the chest.

Her jaw snaps shut at once, eyes wide as she's unable to speak. If I thought she was mad before hand, she's fucking spitting _now._ I swear, purist or not, she looks seconds away from tackling me muggle style!

"Druella! Don't worry, I'll, um-"

Though I tense and consider shutting Nott up as well, she quickly makes it clear even if she faintly remembers half of the counter-spell, it isn't enough to actually preform it. In the end Nott suggests going to her brother or Black the Prefect for help, and they leave with Rosier shooting me death glares over her shoulder, leaving Lilith and I in slightly awkward silence.

 _'Well, it certainly sucks to not be able to do nonverbal or wandless magic, doesn't?'_ I snicker to myself. Not that I have much room to talk myself, considering that the only spells I can do nonverbally and wandlessly are the summoning charm, lumos, and to a lesser extent lighting small fires. Yet by themselves and if used correctly they _are_ very useful spells.

"Um, so Barbara mentioned that she was visiting her sister, but that she would be back before curfew..." Lilith trails off.

I cock my head to the side, considering her. "I don't suppose you own any nail polish, do you?"

She beams. "I do!"

So Lilith and I spend the next five minutes painting each other's nails, and since its that cheap kind it takes us a good three coats until we get a nice shade of colour.

Rosier and Nott never make an appearance, despite Lilith and I waiting for it, but as I'm putting the final coat on Lilith's ring finger Barbara enters.

"Barbara! Welcome back, Dorothy agreed to the girl's night!"

"I see," she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair as she closes the door behind her. "Ah, where did the others go?"

Lilith glances at me, silently asking me if I wanted to tell her.

That's...Considerate of her. "Rosier and I got into a fight, you could say, and she and Nott ended up leaving in a fit. I don't think they'll be returning until much later," I say wryly.

Barbara doesn't seem surprised by the news.

Lilith insists to be the one to paint Barbara's nails, and it's during then that someone else knocks on the door. A Second Year girl with glasses and freckles splashed across her nose and cheekbones pokes her head it, eyes immediately zeroing in on me. "Dorothy Riddle?" she asks.

I raise my eyebrows. "Yes?"

She clears her throat, straightening and taking a step forward in the room. "Your brother is waiting by the arch, wanting to speak with you- eek!" She nearly trips herself as the snake brothers slither over her shoes, trailing up the bed's post in order to curl into my lap.

My brows climb higher up on my forehead, although I'm not really surprised. I turn my attention to Oscar and Aaron; **"What did Tom say?"**

 **"Brother-Speaker is not pleased,"** Aaron licks the air. **"He demanded we bring you to him, saying that he did not give permission and he will give us two tasty rats if we do as he orders. Silly Brother-Speaker, does he not realize that Sister-Speaker will double his offer?"** He gives me a pointed look, and I can't help but laugh.

 _'As if they're even big enough to force me anywhere,'_ I snort at the mere idea. At best they could immobilize me, but then what? **"Yes, yes, I will give _four_ tasty rats if you side with me."**

 **"Deal,"** Oscar hisses smugly.

"Um..." The nameless Second Year girl shifts in the doorway awkwardly.

"What did they say?" Lilith asks me.

"Can you tell my brother -and _please_ quote me on this- that I _will not_ be going out to talk to him, nor do I need his fucking _permission_ to sleep in my own goddamn room, so can he kindly take out the stick up his arse?" I direct to the older girl.

She frowns disapprovingly at me, feathers mildly ruffled. "I will not swear, however I'll inform him that you refuse to come out."

I shrug my shoulders, and the girl leaves.

"So, what did the snakes say?" Lilith repeats, eyes flickering over Barbara's right hand.

I hum, squinting at my own hands to see how well they're drying. Real shitty-like it seems, and somehow my left thumb brushed up against something so now the paint is smudged. "They just said that Tom wasn't happy about my decision is all," I answer simply.

She cocks her head curiously. "But didn't you say something about 'permission' to Marie?"

"Is that her name?" I muse idly.

"Yeah, Marie Jones. Her father owns a small store that sells and repairs toys in Diagon Alley, and she has an older brother who's a Seventh Year in Ravenclaw, and a younger one who's coming in two years," Lilith responds. "We chatted together the other day when I found her reading _Bewitched At Sunset_ in the library."

"Um," Barbara bites her lip nervously, and Lilith and I immediately turn to her. "Ah, Dorothy, I've been wondering -and I don't mean to be rude, you can say no if you want- but maybe you could teach Lilith and I how to speak Parseltongue? I think it's brilliant that you and your brother have your own secret language, and..." She grows quieter and quieter after each word, eventually trailing off completely when I don't immediately answer.

"Oh, yes please!" Lilith perks up and eagerly grabs my hands, albeit careful to avoid smudging either of our nail polish further. "It would be so wicked!"

I smile, finding my own interest peeked. "Sure, why not? Can't promise that'll work, though."

Lilith cheers, and Barbara smiles shyly, murmuring thanks.

Another knock on our door, and Marie Jones opens it, clearly annoyed at having to play messenger -owl?- yet again. "Your brother says that he isn't leaving until you come talk to him."

"Well, I guess he'll be waiting all night then," I say dismissively.

I call bullshite on it, anyways. He's too proud to wait all night -I give him an hour or two at best. He won't want others to piece it together that he's being 'stood up,' and he can only excuse his presence in the common room with homework for so long.

"Can't you simply tell him yourself?" Jones questions tiredly.

What, and risk his silver tongue? Yeah, no thanks.

"Maybe you should talk to him," Lilith pipes in hesitantly. "He sounds upset."

I purse my lips. "He's a big boy, he can handle a single night," I stubbornly refuse.

"Fine," Jones sighs, and leaves for the final time.

The rest of the night consists of me trying to teach the girls how to hiss "Hello" and their names, which they fail miserably at. Barbara keeps saying "rocks" or "cat," while Lilith -to my never ending amusement- said that she shat herself. I also show them how to make fish braids.

The girls start getting tired around 10:40, and so while they hit the hay I start a new Animagus chapter under the guise of other work. Almost and hour later I decide that I should go to bed myself, knowing that I'll need a good night's rest for my race with Malfoy tomorrow.

As per Lilith's and I deal, I slip into her bed. I consider spooning her like Tom prefers to do with me, but discard it. I don't want to be weird, and her presence alone should be enough, if not 'perfect.'

It's 2:08am before I finally fall asleep.

* * *

**October 2nd, 1938.**

The next day is Sunday, and Malfoy and I's rematch is to take place at the pitch after lunch.

I wake up groggy as usual, but I notice that while Lilith is still snoring away, she's on the other side of the bed with her back facing me. I idly compare her to Tom, knowing that on the mornings that he isn't up before me he is, without fail, wrapped around me like a particularly stubborn octopus.

You wouldn't think that he's a cuddlier and bed hog just from looking at him, but I swear he's been trying to burrow into my very skin and is getting closer to succeeding each passing night.

(He tries to argue that _I'm_ the one who clings, but this morning just shows that he's full of shite.)

I see that Rosier and Nott never returned, and Barbara already left. A quick flick of my wand and the mumbled incarnation shows that it's 10:47 in the morning.

 _'Shite.'_ Tom -no, Spademan- actually _both_ are going to fucking _murder me._

Signing, I slip out of Lilith's bed and start getting dressed for the day. Shockingly the braid that Lilith weaved last night is still intact, so I leave that as is and only brush my teeth in the bathroom.

Once ready and with my magical handbag in possession, I cautiously creep out from the girl's dormitory. And with good fucking reason, too, because Tom is sitting front and center in the common room with full view of the hallway's entrance.

"Morning," I try with a forced smile.

He wordlessly glares at me, allowing the tension between us to grow thicker. He has slight bags under his eyes, and he looks as if he kept good on his word about not leaving until I "come talk to him." That causes a silver of guilt to worm inside of me. I truly thought he would be too proud to allow himself to wait all night.

I guess that's on me for underestimating him.

 **"Who did that?"** He finally speaks coldly.

 **"What?"** I blink, and then instinctively touch my braid. **"Oh, this? Lilith wanted to try out a new style. Her's is too short, so-"**

 **"So you left me just because of _that?_ Was Armstrong not there or willing?" **He demands.

I frown, arms crossing over my chest. **"It was just one night, Tom. And besides, you know that we can't sleep together forever-"**

**"No, I _don't_ know. You only ever had a problem with it when Rosier mentioned it, and I don't see why we have to stop now. Slughorn certainly isn't trying to stop us, nor is any other Professor."**

_'That's because I'm pretty sure Professor Slughorn is the only Professor that knows.'_ Dumbledore definitely would have tried if he did.

 **"It's not healthy, Tom,"** I point out. **"Eventually we're going to be too big to fit in a single bed together."**

 **"Do we not possess magic?"** Tom retorts scornfully, as if I were but a dumb sack of bricks

My frown becomes more profound, feet shifting to be closer to the common room's only exit. **"Stop,"** I tell him sternly. **"I'm not just going to stand here and-and let you yell at me as if I went out and committed some fucking _crime._ I'm going to go have breakfast and you can join me when you've taken a damn chill pill and are ready to _talk_."**

But _of course_ Tom can't let me have the last fucking word. **"She doesn't _truly_ care about you know, Dorothy, she's simply a naturally social person. And sooner or later she'll become tired of you."**

I won't deny that Tom's -the little shite's- parting words doesn't sting, but I'm too confused and upset about his strong, weird-arse reaction to counter him. Instead I simply storm out of the Slytherin dormitory and moodily make my lonesome to the kitchens.

 _'What the hell is his problem?'_ I bitterly grumble to myself. _'She "doesn't truly care about me"? The fuck? And why did he pounce on my hair so quick?'_

The forgotten memory of seven year old Tom sweetly asking if I wanted help one morning when I tried to untangle my hair comes to mind, and my responding "no" causes me to pause, deep in thought.

Is that it? He threw a goddamn sissy fit because I didn't let _him_ play with my _fucking hair-?_

No. No, though it _was_ the first thing he mentioned, he was clearly more upset with the idea of me spending the night apart from him in general. My choice of hair stylist is only a symptom, not the root-problem of whatever has crawled up his arse.

Still doesn't give him the fucking right to say or act the way he did, though.

I'm still stewing about it once I've arrived at the kitchens, and I suppose I'm doing a bad job hiding it, because as soon as my arrival is noticed I'm being herded to a tiny table pushed against the wall, and a plate of delicious looking poached eggs, bacon, buttered toast, and cup of hot tea is presented in front of me all under five minutes.

"Thank you," I tell them quietly, to which I either get a bright smile, demure responses, or even a pat on my hand.

"'Tis no problem at all, Young Miss. We's is happy to serve," one of them replies before scampering away to continue their chores.

"Did Young Miss have another fight with the naughty Young Misses or Mister?" Sooty gives me a knowing look as she places my fork and knife on the table.

I frown, watching as the Elves bustle about as they clean up breakfast. I pick up my fork and (angrily) stab my eggs. "No, Tom's just being a little prick is all."

Breakfast is otherwise unbothered, and after eating and sipping my morning tea I check the time again. 11: 24.

Signing, and knowing that Spademan is probably about to pop a vain looking for me, I thank the House Elves again for the food before leaving for the pitch. Though not before multiple Elves all but forced some snacks, sandwiches, and pudding for the day in my bag.

True to my assumptions, while on my way to the pitch I run into Spademan, who gains a crazy look in his eyes and immediately launches himself to grab me by the shoulders, all but dragging me to the pitch while he rants my ear off:

"Riddle! There you are! I've been looking bloody _everywhere_ -your brother couldn't tell me where you here- where _were_ you, anyways? No, that doesn't matter, you almost missed it, you fool! You still have the broom, right? I swear to Merlin if you don't-"

"Dude, _chill._ I got it; it's shunken and in my bag, like it's been for the past few days. And _ow,_ are you _trying_ to pull my arm out of it's fucking socket-?"

"Listen, Riddle, Shafiq got wind of your little match, and he's decided to come observe! You can _mess_ this up, understand? This is your chance to show off your budding skills!"

I gawk. _"What?_ That bastard is coming to watch?"

Spademan nods vigorously. "Yes, so you _must_ win at all costs!"

My stomach rolls. Shafiq taking interest changes the whole damn thing, and suddenly it makes so much sense why Spademan is acting like a headless chicken.

It's not just a pissing match anymore, but a match to consider and compare possible future recruitments by the Captain himself.

And so long story short, that's how I find myself standing in the pitch while holding a stare down with Malfoy, our audience loitering by the entrance of one of the changing rooms.

The weather is admittedly pretty mild, even for England's standards. More than one person is wearing their scarves or hugging their school robes close, though of course I surpass everyone by far.

(Thank fuck that I don't live in California anymore, or else I'd probably suffer a heat stroke way before today.)

"Are you sure you'll be able to see through all of that?" Malfoy jeers at me, five feet away as he holds his polished broomstick.

My smile is perhaps a little too sharp to be genuine. "And miss your _delightful_ expression when you lose? Please, I assure you that it won't pose any problem." _'Prat.'_

He bristles, but turns away from me to face our audience as if I hadn't spoken.

I eye the crowd myself, and not for the first time. Despite what Spademan made it out to be, not _all_ of Slytherin Quidditch Team came, though it's still most. King and Rowle are the only ones not lurking behind the cluster of First Years, but aside from them I also notice four other older students, one of them Darren Nott, and another being that anxious Ravenclaw boy who Spademan more or less blackmailed into lending me his broom. But I suspect that he's only here to make sure I don't fuck up his property, and to snatch it back as soon as possible.

I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge Tom in the crowd, still rather sour over this morning.

As my eyes wander over them, I end up locking gazes with Shafiq. He smiles lazily, arrogantly, hand raising to offer the minimalist wave as he leans one shoulder on the changing room's entryway.

I can practically _feel_ Spademan burning holes in my person, threatening me to not to fuck this chance up _'or else.'_

Like, no pressure or anything.

"Captain Shafiq, would you mind being our referee?" Malfoy asks, sounding surprisingly pleasant and agreeable.

I shoot Malfoy a dirty look, frowning as Shafiq's smile widens and he immediately strolls forward, hands in his pockets and saying; "Of course."

 _'Fucking prat. Sucking up to the man before I could,'_ I silently grumble to myself. Then again, maybe it's only fair since I practically have Spademan in my pocket.

(Distantly, I can hear Nora singing _Hamilton, Washington On Your Side_ in my head, twirling and swinging in the living room, a huge grin on her face with the corner of her eyes crinkling.)

Spademan comes to stand beside him, pointedly staring at me and not Shafiq, who frowns at Spademan but doesn't say anything. "Are the two of you ready?" Shafiq questions us crisply.

 _'Don't you dare embarrass me,'_ Spademan seems to tell me. It's almost as if he's more nervous than _I am_ -which I admittedly am, considering the tension in the air. It's all that I can do to hide my jitters and shite, them crawling under my skin and causing my gut to twist uncomfortably. Not that I'm actually going to let anyone _know that,_ though.

"Yes," Malfoy answers, the same time I respond:

"Of fucking course."

"Go Dorothy! You can do it!" Lilith cheers from the sidelines, grinning ear to ear with Tom and Barbara on either side of her.

I force a smile back, waving slightly.

"Put her in her place, Abraxas!" Lestrange jeers. "Show her what a _real_ flyer is like!"

I am mightily pleased when Oscar, wrapped around Tom's shoulders with Aaron tasting the air by Tom's ear, hisses angrily and causes Lestrange to flinch. I make a quick mental note to swipe an egg from the kitchens later for Oscar.

Malfoy and I line up at the starting line, noted by a specific stick on the ground, and ready ourselves for take off.

I have to resist the urge to wipe my clammy palms on my skirt.

"Three..." Shafiq counts lowly. "Two... _One!"_

Although I had managed to squeeze in a couple practice runs before now, the difference of power between the school brooms and this borrowed one -one specially designed for speed and quidditch- still takes me back for a second, forcing my eyes shut for a moment and for my stomach to almost lift.

I pry my eyes open, hating the tears being forced out of the corner of my eyes as I lean forward. Malfoy and I are about the same pace for some time, until we get to the first corner and he manages to cut a sharper turn than me, laughing freely and loudly while doing so.

I try to ignore the loud cheering and jeering for both sides going on. Rather easily due to the wind whistling in my ears and the sharp whipping sound of my scarf.

I lean down further, practically plastered against the broom handle as I clench it tighter and will myself to go _faster, goddamnit!_

(I almost wish that we were older, so that Malfoy would be filled out more and therefore have wider shoulders to slow him down.)

_'Faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster faster-'_

Grinding my teeth, I feel the distance between me and Malfoy slowly increasing. I wish I could simply reach my arm forward fucking and _pull him back!_

Second turn.

Third turn. _Last turn._ I'm gradually gaining on him, inch by bloody inch, but _it's not fucking enough -he's still out pacing me by a foot-_

Spademan, Shafiq, and the finishing line is fast approaching. Only seconds left -ten seconds if I'm lucky-

Malfoy sits up a little in order to look over his shoulder at me, grinning wickedly as he shouts; "You may have gotten a better broom, but I guess natural talent will always show through, right?"

And, in that single glorious moment, as if the stairs and planets themselves aligned to make the insufferable little shite eat his own words, he suddenly slowed down as he enviably let up on his broom _and I fucking pass him._

"OOOHHH!"

"Abra-!"

"Go Dorothy-!"

I zoom past Spademan and Shafiq, precious seconds before Malfoy.

_I make it._

My chest near bursts as I stop and hop off my broom, lips stretching wide and adrenaline still running high as I turn to look at my audience, Lilith laughing and shaking Barbara in excitement, and Tom speed walking towards me with clear pride shining through.

I laugh as I'm swept up in the mini crowd of friends, overcome with sheer, unadulterated joy. I don't even mind it when Spademan claps me hard on the back, and Lilith near strangles me as she hangs off my neck and with her cold cheek pressing against mine.

"You did it! You really did it, Dorothy!"

"Of course she did," Tom tells Lilith smugly. "There wasn't a chance of her failing."

It seems like Tom has, at least for the moment, "forgiven" me for the girls night, then. Not that I can bring myself to be more than a little bit annoyed about it considering the high I'm on.

Then I catch sight of Malfoy. Malfoy, who is dismounting from his own broom, looking as if he's about to cry but is desperately doing his best to keep a stiff upper lip. Who, upon locking gazes with me, visibly steels himself with gritted teeth for the salt that he's expecting me to viciously and thoroughly rub in his open wound.

And fuck all if that doesn't make me just wilt on the spot, for my heart to hurt even as Tom, Spademan, and Lilith and Barbara surround me with congratulations.

Because in that moment I'm reminded that for all his undeserved arrogance and bigotry, he's still only fucking eleven years old, and I've been a right bitch to them all this whole time, haven't I?

Granted, they usually make it a pleasure to be a bitch to them, and someone ought to deal out the real life lessons -but maybe, just maybe, I don't need to be so damn mean while doing so.

Maybe it's about time I start acting like the adult I believe I am.

"Dorothy?"

I ignore Tom's question, breaking apart from the others in order to approach Malfoy, who is glaring at his hands which holds his broom. He quietly mumbling about how the wind got in his eyes, angrily whipping the brimming tears away. "What?" He finally demands of me waspishly when I give him the chance to compose himself.

I smile -one which hopefully comes off as friendly and warm, and not as awkward as I'm feeling- and offer him a hand to shake. "Good match, yeah? You almost had me there for a second-"

"I don't need your pity, Riddle," he snarls as he knocks my hand away, drawing himself taller as he does so. "You got lucky, but don't count on it next him." And then, like the fucking eleven year old prat he his, he storms off with his friends following his wake and sending me dark looks and last minute insults on his behalf.

_'That fucking-'_

A heavy, dark skinned hand falls on my shoulder, distracting me from my bitter and ugly thoughts. "Don't let them bother you," Spademan tells me as he squeezes my shoulder. "You did good today, Riddle. He's simply being a wanker about it."

"Malfoy is an imbecile," Tom readily agrees on my other side, squeezing my free hand as he glares in the direction that Malfoy and his friends left at. "He will rue the day the he dismissed you -the day he dismissed _us."_

Despite the united moment, I find myself pausing to study at my twin. To replay the words he just said. It sounded incredibly, terribly ominous right then. As if he wasn't simply referring to Malfoy's piss-poor sportsmanship. And then I think back on Tom's cutting words this morning.

"Yeah!" Lilith chimes in, sidling up to us much to Tom's subtle irritation as he smoothly wedges himself between us again. "He's too proud to say it, but you absolutely proved yourself to be the better flier!" she continues.

My eyes unwittingly drifts towards Shafiq, who has since been reunited with his Team. He stares back, expression otherwise unreadable if one forgives the frown and cold look in his eyes. Behind him Parkinson and Burke are whispering furiously to each other, shooting me the occasional glance. He also leaves, without so much as a word and only a dismissing, uncaring glance at Spademan.

Well, fuck you too.

* * *

**If you'd like to review, please answer these questions:**

**1.** What do you think about the Quidditch match?

 **2.** What do you think about Tom's reaction to Dorothy's girls' night? Why do you think he reacted that way?

 **3.** What did you think about Dorothy's and Malfoy's rematch?

 **4.** What was your favourite part?

 **5.** What was your least favourite part?

 **6.** Did you see any mistakes, and if so, where?

 **7.** Do you have any questions?


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